Sol Survivors

by Ken Benton

  In the next instant his communication was validated as another shot rang from the edge of the bushes, resulting in Billy Ray stumbling backward and releasing the redhead before falling.

  Elger acted fast. Forgetting the nerd, he ran to the rear of red truck and fired three times into the brush beside it, while backing his way to the door of the black truck. Nothing to do now but get in it, throw it in reverse, and high tail it back to the Appalachian Trail.

  No sign of his adversary. One more shot in the bushes for good measure, then jump in the truck.

  His plans hit a snag when he turned around to make his getaway move. A new gunshot boomed from mere feet away, this one again different-sounding. A powerful burning force tearing into his chest accompanied it, throwing him to the ground.

  Elger’s vision fell upon the blonde woman, crouched next to the black truck, directing the barrel of a rifle at him. It was the last thing he ever saw.

  Chapter Nine

  “Joel, I’m freaked out!” Jessie said, still crying, still more or less hysterical. “And I’m scared. How can you want to keep going?”

  Joel looked down the mountain again before replying.

  “Backward is no safer than forward now, Jess. I see lights in the distance from here, and this road does appear to be mostly visible and open on down.”

  “Those lights might be fires,” Archer said.

  Good, maybe Archer was regaining his composure. His tone remained stoic, but at least he was talking.

  Debra faced Archer, wide-eyed and still clutching the rifle, saying nothing. Archer didn’t hold his gaze on her for more than a few seconds at a time. It seemed to Joel that she was studying him and seeking a specific gesture, perhaps leadership, reassurance, consoling, or vindication. But Archer acted aloof towards her, as if he were afraid of something.

  “There are real lights on inside some homes and buildings down there,” Joel replied. “I can tell the difference. There may be a couple small fires in the city on the far horizon, but nothing threatening. I definitely feel forward is the best way to go.”

  Jessie continued her objections as she walked in circles, arms crossed tight.

  “We don’t even know where this stupid backwoods road really goes! And I’m cold. I just want to go home.”

  Then she stopped and looked at Joel with pleading eyes, softening her voice. “Please. I want to go home, Joel.”

  Joel put his arm around her. “The home you are thinking of is no longer the same, honey. With no power, food supplies in the city will soon be gone, probably from looting, and it won’t be safe—”

  “And you call this safe?” she wrestled herself away from him. “This road you are leading us on is dark and cold, and has … freaking monsters! Maybe this cabin you’re taking us to will be the same way! I don’t want to go fight some hillbilly war and have to worry about you shooting thugs and rapists every day in order to survive! I’ll take my chances at my home and studio!”

  Joel opened his mouth to respond, but ended up keeping his silence. From her perspective, Jessie did have something of a point, and, given the ordeal they just experienced, her reaction was understandable. She obviously wasn’t ready to be convinced of uncomfortable facts, the foremost being that during an extended blackout the city life she wished to go back and “take her chances on” would quickly become a much worse proposition than a homesteading effort on Joel’s well-stocked retreat. When a car customer expressed genuine doubts about a vehicle’s suitability for their needs, Joel knew his own testimony could never fully sway them. They needed convincing from an outside source.

  That’s why he and Sammy developed the signal. When either one of them needed special help with a customer, they would turn their hat backwards or roll up one sleeve. The other would then come out, assuming the customer had not seen them yet, and pretend to be another customer reporting some minor point, apologizing for the interruption, but then mentioning how they used to own one of the cars in question and how it was one of their favorite vehicles ever. A further set of signals would indicate a specific feature the other was to rave about before leaving the property.

  That routine helped close a lot of deals. Joel wished he could now signal Archer or Debra to step in and help close Jessie. But as he looked back to them, they only continued their strange dance, with Debra waiting and watching for something from her man which, whatever it was, remained elusive.

  Debra. Here was an interesting individual. While Joel had to react fast, scramble for his life, assess a tactical situation, and implement a battle plan for survival—one which required a degree of luck in not getting hit by close-shaving bullets from desperation fire—she apparently kept her cool enough to wait for a diversion, slip into the extra cab, lay low enough to stay out of sight, open Archer’s rifle case, retrieve the weapon, make sure it was loaded, open the extra cab door, crawl out, and get into a defensive position.

  “Archer,” Joel said.

  “Yes?” Archer appeared relieved to have an excuse to direct his vision anywhere but Debra.

  “What caliber is this?” Joel pointed at the bolt-action rifle in Debra’s arms.

  “Um … 243”

  “Damn. How much ammo do you have?”

  “One box.”

  Joel felt a dejected expression form on his face and turned back to Jessie, only to find her glaring.

  “Is this what you care about?” she blurted. “How many more people you can shoot, when your girlfriend needs you to take care of her? Joel, bring me home!”

  “What about them?” Archer interjected.

  Joel and Jessie both turned to him. Archer motioned his eyes toward the closest corpse, the spikey-haired dirt bike rider who lured them into the trap.

  “What do you mean?” Joel asked after giving ample time for anyone else to answer.

  “What do we do about the bodies? And how and where do we report this whole thing?”

  Crickets.

  “I want to go home,” Jessie finally repeated in a less demanding voice. “Maybe if we did what they said, instead of going all Clint Eastwood on them, they would have just taken the trucks and left.”

  “Maybe.” Joel turned to her and spoke in a much more forceful tone. “Maybe not. And would that really be a better result in your view? We’d be stranded here on this cold dark mountain with nothing but the clothes on our backs. No transportation, no food or water, no supplies of any kind, nothing we need to survive. That kind of robbery isn’t far from murder in a survival situation.”

  “Joel, take me home.”

  “I’m not going back, Jess. You can ask Archer, I guess.”

  Jessie gave him a hurt look that quickly turned to anger, and then just as quickly to begging as she turned to Archer.

  “Archer, take me home?”

  Archer looked to Joel, as if seeking permission.

  “Up to you,” Joel said. “I’d recommend against it. I hope you’ll all still come with me.”

  “What about the bodies, and reporting the incident?” Archer asked again.

  “Well…” Joel shrugged. “What are our options? The way I see it, we can leave them where they lie, move them off the road, take them with us, burn them, or break out a shovel and spend half the night putting them in a shallow grave.”

  “I don’t like any of those options!” Jessie said.

  “Neither do I, Jess. Can you think of any others?”

  “We shouldn’t have come this way.”

  “No, we shouldn’t have. But we did. I’m afraid we’re going to have to accept certain inconvenient realities. One of those is a higher violent crime rate during a crisis. Another is insufficient law enforcement to always protect us from it, so we need to be prepared to protect ourselves. Unfortunately, that only figures to get worse as the blackout extends, living supplies dwindle, and backup generators run out of fuel. The sooner we get to my cabin the better.”

  “Your food supply is good?” Archer asked.

  “Fairly good, yes, p
lus I have gardening stuff including properly stored seeds, and there is game—not to mention nearby farms and fisheries.”

  “Farms, huh?”

  “Yes, Archer. Tennessee land is zoned 44% agriculture.”

  “Then I’m for going forward.”

  “No,” Jessie cried putting her face in her hands.

  “But I think we should do something appropriate with the bodies,” Archer continued, “and report the incident to a sheriff or someone.”

  “I have no objection,” Joel said. “But if we are to put the matter to a vote, I’m for simply pulling them off the trail and leaving them to the vultures. Maybe we can pin a note on one of them.”

  “Saying what?”

  “How about ex-robbers? Or failed ambush?”

  Archer shook his head. “That’s hardly proper. Though I suppose a note describing what happened and giving our identities would be reasonable under the circumstances.”

  “Like when you hit a parked car?” Joel asked.

  Archer scowled back at him.

  “Whatever, man.” Joel turned around. “Let’s decide and do it.”

  “Do whatever you want,” Jessie said through her hands. “I don’t care.”

  Joel turned back. “I guess that leaves one vote.”

  Joel and Archer looked to Debra.

  Debra appeared to don an expression of resignation in waiting for whatever it was she wanted from Archer. She turned to Joel and pointed the barrel of the rifle at the corpses.

  “To hell with them,” she said. “Let’s just get going.”

  * * *

  The Pilot Flying J Travel Center two miles north of Harrisonburg looked different when dark. Lance Gordon had never seen it, or any other major truck stop, with no lights on at night and the big sign out.

  The 115-space truck lot wasn’t totally dark, though, and anything but lonely. It bustled with activity. Many of the rigs held their headlights on for a short time in varying places, illuminating teamsters gathered in small groups sharing endless scuttle and speculations. The sky also provided some light from its brilliantly colored streaks of stars, as did the activity from an adjacent designated auto parking area, which prior to today was nothing more than an abandoned truck lot expansion project.

  Lance paced in front of his rig waiting for the telltale sound. Knowing it was due made him apprehensive, even while accepting its inevitability. The event would signal a new course of direction; a new chapter in his adventures. He only wished he knew exactly what that course would be.

  A neighboring driver approached. They’d already met. His name was John, and he seemed to really get around. Lance was more of an introvert, content to relax in his cab and read or listen to music. But he found conversation with John to be easy enough. After exchanging cursory greetings for the fourth time tonight, the anticipated sputtering sound finally came, followed by a pocket of silence.

  “Is that your refrigeration unit dying on you?” John asked.

  “Yep,” Lanced replied. “Run out of diesel.”

  “Guess it could be a blessing to happen at night.”

  “I don’t see how it matters,” Lance said. “With no fuel being pumped, this load of produce is a now a time bomb to turn into a heap of garbage.”

  “Where’s it headed?”

  “Louisiana.”

  John pushed his cap back. “Hell, that’s a lucky destination.”

  “How so?”

  “You haven’t heard? Gas stations are still pumping in that state. Florida, too.”

  “No,” Lance said. “I haven’t heard. But I wonder how anyone else has heard? Seeing as no phones work and I can only get static on the CB.”

  “It’s because of the hurricanes.” John made a motion with one arm, hindered somewhat by his stiff coat. “They’re saying it’s been verified, too, from a chain of reliable messages, drivers coming out as far as they can go and then reporting it on working walkie-talkies.”

  Lance crossed his arms. “So you’re saying a long relay of walkie-talkie messages has reached here over a distance of five hundred miles? Not sure I buy that. And what do hurricanes have to do with anything?”

  “State laws, friend, passed after hurricanes knocked them on their ass one too many times. Gas stations have to be set up for backup power generators in Florida, Louisiana, and New York, now, too—but I haven’t heard anything about New York yet. Some are saying the law only requires them to have the ability to hook a generator up, but not keep one on hand, and that the rioting is so bad in New York they can’t get the generators to the stations, or have to wait until the National Guard can provide security. Others are saying the military is confiscating that fuel and keeping it for themselves, using civil unrest as an excuse.” John paused to glance at the dark gas pumps. “Would have made a good law in Virginia, too, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose,” Lance said. “That is interesting news, thanks. But I don’t see how any of it is going to help me get to the west coast, especially since I don’t have the fuel to make Louisiana even if I leave the trailer.”

  “Wife and kids?” John asked.

  Lance nodded. “One kid. California.”

  “Well, I don’t think anyone could blame you for ditching your load, especially since your destination grocery stores aren’t likely to even still be operating. Some of the others are talking about just giving the food away to anyone traveling by before it spoils. But all hope is not lost. I hear tell a local farmer is bringing up a manual well-pump tonight to see if they can dunk it in the tanks and draw out fuel for us.”

  “Sounds like a practical idea.” Lance looked around the lot. “I mean, the gas is here, sitting down there in the tanks.”

  “There’s a fair number of full diesel fuel trucks on the lot, too,” John said. “Though the drivers are acting as nervous as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. We probably just need to rig some hose fittings with the gas nozzles from the pumps. The manager of this Flying J is supposedly working on that. You can’t quell the American spirit, no way no how. Like you said, the fuel is here, and where there’s a will there’s a way.”

  “Sounds like this will take a while. Hell of a lot of tanks to fill.”

  “Ah, we’ll work out some kind of a lottery. It ain’t like we got much choice, or anything else to do. Only real worry is that the army will move in and confiscate the fuel first.”

  Chapter Ten

  Joel perceived the welcome faint light of early morning when his eyelids fluttered while shifting positions to relieve a backache. It would still be a while before the sun peaked over the Appalachians. He groggily intended to return to slumber, but the weight of the current circumstances jarred his brain into serious-think mode. There would be no more sleeping for him.

  Jessie remained stiff and sideways under the blanket in the passenger seat, leaned back as far as it would go against the packed gear. Her head had wedged itself in the corner of the seat and the door. Past her, through the window, Joel could see the top of Archer’s head in a similar position in the neighboring truck. It’s amazing any of them actually slept. But exhaustion had definitely been a factor in the decision to stay in this place until morning. It was by no means quiet, but absolutely safe.

  How they ended up stopping at the crowded Pilot Flying J truck stop for the remainder of the night was an interesting escapade. But then, so was the entire day yesterday. Parts of it were highly regrettable. Other parts one could only be thankful for.

  The cowboy army colonel was here with his outfit. Joel found that greatly comforting, even if the way they kept running into each other was peculiar. They arrived at almost the same time, so the shortcut down the mountain turned out to be a rotten decision all the way around. The only possible saving grace was the possibility of refueling now, as remote as Joel deemed it to be even after falling into good graces with the truck stop manager. If Interstate 81 south was truly clear, as everyone claimed, they should still have enough gas to make it. But it’d be nice to be
able to drive somewhere else again someday.

  Joel made sure Archer was listening last night when he asked the colonel a hypothetical question about shooting highway bandits in self-defense. The colonel was taken aback some, and gave an official-sounding response before lowering his voice and commenting about personally preferring “old west justice.” Archer confided to Joel afterwards that the antic was unnecessary, that he had made peace with the way they left the scene because of the incident report he scribbled out and attached to one of bodies.

  But Archer didn’t know Joel decided to remove it before departing when no one was looking. As far as Joel was concerned, he never needed to know, either.

  The trip down the mountain at night was nerve-rattling at times, but uneventful. The auxiliary lights on Joel’s truck lit the trail nicely, even if they also announced their coming to anyone watching from afar.

  Once down on flat ground again the trail widened, so they sped up. The first farmhouses they passed were dark, but then they began seeing those with candles flickering inside windows, and an occasional house lit up as if there were no blackout. Those were obviously running on generators, perhaps using large underground propane tanks as Joel’s cabin was equipped with. He hadn’t told anyone that yet, not even Jessie. The thought of burning through a potentially nonrenewable resource to maintain everyday comforts struck Joel as frivolous and wasteful. His guests would learn about the generator soon enough. For now, he decided it was best to mentally prepare them for life without power so it wouldn’t be as hard a sell to only use it occasionally.

  Being down from the mountains amongst law-abiding farmers brought a concrete sense of relief. Even Jessie regained some of her composure. That is, until they came upon the stake-bed truck.

  On the outskirts of Elkton, just before the first paved crossroad, a vehicle obstructed the path, the first they’d encountered since leaving the Swift Run Gap. Joel had to slow for it. As he did, the figure of a man stepped out from behind the bed of the truck, holding an object above his head not terribly different from the outline of a shotgun.