by Ken Benton
Joel also knew a little about the power grid. He knew that electrical wiring still worked, and what caused the grid to go down was the destruction of critical components from uncontrollable power surges, most significantly transformers. Large transformers were the most expensive and impractical component to create an adequate backup supply. No doubt a supply did exist somewhere, but how they would be allocated was anyone’s guess. Making more of them without the aid of electricity would be a serious challenge. In the current age, it takes electric power to make electric power.
Virginia was one of a handful of states with legislation in place for having a disaster plan specifically addressing power outages caused by EMPs or other electromagnetic disturbances. That being so, the power was still out here. Having a plan and being ready were apparently different things. But if this solar storm, which gave less than 48 hours warning, was really three times the magnitude of the Carrington event, they could hardly be blamed. Preparing for disasters unprecedented in scope was not a reasonable requirement for a public utility company expected to pay quarterly dividends to stockholders. Most likely, the handful of “prepared” states weren’t prepared for anything bigger than the localized solar storm that struck Quebec in 1989. That one destroyed a few large transformers near power stations, but the affected populace had their lights back on within twelve hours thanks to the ability to “borrow” electric power from providers in the northeastern U.S. while their critical grid components were repaired.
In the current crisis, it was highly doubtful any providers were left to borrow power from.
“Hey,” Archer said, drawing Joel’s attention.
He held up Jessie’s phone, but not in an enthusiastic way. Joel wasn’t sure what Jessie was going to do with it other than use it as a pacifier for the strongly-entrenched habit of tapping on it several thousand times a day.
“Thanks, Archer. Sorry you guys aren’t feeling good. Did you and Jessie eat anything Debra and I didn’t last night?”
“It’s not a stomach thing,” he replied. “It’s the sun. Isn’t it bothering you?”
“No.” Joel gazed at the sky through the windshield. “To me it’s a nice spring day.”
“I wish we could get out of it.”
“We’re almost to Roanoke. Once we get past, it should be shadier as we go through canyons, and the road will then turn westward, bringing the sun to my side for most of the afternoon.”
“I don’t envy you.”
“I remember Debra saying the solar storm could destroy the ozone layer,” Joel said. “Do you think that happened?”
“I think it surely weakened it,” Archer replied. “We better hope it isn’t completely destroyed. I don’t believe it is, or we’d all be badly sunburned just from the short time of exposure we had yesterday afternoon and this morning.”
Joel did notice pink splotches on Archer’s skin, now that he mentioned it. None on himself, thank God.
“You and Jessie are more fair-skinned than Debra or I,” Joel said. “You think a damaged ozone layer could be affecting you two more because of that?”
“Probably.” Archer squirmed in his seat. “But I heard a few darker-skinned people complain about the sun this morning, too. Including one of the soldiers guarding your colonel.”
“My colonel?
“Well, you guys do keep meeting.”
“I know. Turns out he’s from Knoxville, too. We were getting pretty friendly until I told him where we were going. Then he shut down, like it was too much of a coincidence and he was worried about being stalked or something.”
Joel’s attention was drawn to a particular motorcycle in his mirror, coming up from the rear pack but refraining from passing. It was the third time this one did that. At least, Joel was pretty sure it was the same bike. Most sped through. Joel couldn’t see the rider’s clothing, other than it was black. Not fatigues.
Joel didn’t like it. The bike looked familiar, even if the rider didn’t. The last time it seemed he was going to pass he ended up falling back when an army truck barreled through. Overall traffic was becoming lighter now. A good number of southbound cars had been pulling off at the truck stops.
Joel intentionally slowed and picked up the walkie-talkie, eyeballing his Glock in the center console. At least he could keep it in sight when Jessie wasn’t passenger, even if Archer’s expressions suggested he’d rather not see it either.
Debra wasn’t ready for the reduction in speed, so was quickly tailgating him.
“Archer found Jessie’s phone,” Joel said into the mic.
“That why you slowed so suddenly?” Debra’s voice replied. “How about a little warning?”
“Sorry,” Joel radioed back.
“You don’t like this motorcycle behind us, do you?” she said.
The motorbike didn’t pass. It came up behind Debra and stayed there. The rear pack of cars now quickly gained on them.
“No I don’t, Debra. Stay on my tail and be ready to make a sudden exit here in Roanoke.”
“Roger.”
The suspect motorbike backed off of Debra again. Joel passed the first Roanoke exit, then the second. Smoke from fires could be seen in this larger city to the left of the highway. Most of the cars in the rear pack exited in Roanoke.
The motorbike didn’t. Joel’s pulse increased. He knew the canyons were coming up. He knew they couldn’t outrun a bike. He also knew that attacking a moving car from a moving motorcycle would be a daring feat. But the bad guy was enraged enough to be daring. And who knows, maybe he was left-handed.
Despite his better judgment, Joel passed the final Roanoke exit and stayed on the interstate.
“It is an interesting phenomenon,” Archer said as if unaware of the developing peril.
“What is?” Joel said speeding up just a bit.
“Repeatedly running into the same people. I took a cruise once. There were over 2,000 passengers and I’m sure I saw less than half of them the entire week. But I kept seeing the same three or four people everywhere.”
The last of the pack of cars passed by. Roanoke became an object in the mirror. Only the adversary remained behind them as the hills began closing on both sides. The behavior of the rider on that bike was now menacing enough to all but confirm his identity to Joel. Six miles of lonely highway lay between here and the next town. This is where the adversary would make his move.
“Debra,” Joel said into the radio. “I want you to pass me and hit the gas. Speed up to about 85.”
“Okay,” she replied with some relief in her voice.
Debra swung into the left lane and floored it. Good girl. Jessie’s face flashed a scowl from the passenger window as she went by.
The bike rider then also moved into the passing lane and hit the throttle, just as Joel thought he would. He was quickly almost even with Joel’s window.
Joel hit the brakes hard. Archer wasn’t braced for it and flew into the seatbelt restraints. Joel pulled to the shoulder and stopped.
The bike whooshed by, braked, swerved, sped up again, but then pulled over to the shoulder as well. He’d been surprised, resulting in a moment of indecision. It was all Joel needed.
Up ahead on the incline Joel watched Debra also come to a stop. The bike rider ended up in the middle of them, with roughly 200 yards of equal distance between both trucks. If he’d been more decisive, he’d be a lot closer to Joel. Certainly he must have realized by this moment that the jig was up. If he had any brains he would also know he’d been outfoxed. The easier target for him, by far, was now the black truck carrying the two females ahead.
But the person he’d worked up an all-consuming murderous hatred for wasn’t in that truck.
The rider regained his composure and turned his bike around to come head-on at Joel.
The second advantage to not having Jessie as a passenger was Joel’s Savage .308 rifle out of its case in the back seat, with the 10-round magazine in and the scope attached. It took Joel only seconds to grab it, exit the v
ehicle, get to the side of the road, kneel, and find the oncoming rider in his scope. The adversary was within a hundred yards by then, accelerating.
He wouldn’t get to fifty yards. Joel shot his front tire. At first he kept coming, not nearly as fast. Joel could see he’d been riding one-handed. But the bike began wobbling so much he had to let off the throttle, nearly dumping it when it veered off the shoulder. It looked like he also had to drop something from his left hand in order to regain control and come to a stop. When he did, Joel placed a second shot between his legs, pinging the round off his engine bringing a plume of smoke from it.
The rider jumped off and ran back towards where he dropped the object. Joel placed a third round in the dirt just ahead of his path. The rider then dove into some brush to the right.
Joel scrambled back to his driver’s seat. Still no traffic behind them.
A wide median separated the north and southbound lanes of Interstate 81 here, consisting mostly of high grass with a few isolated patches of trees and bushes.
Joel headed for the median, crossed it to the opposing traffic side of the interstate, and drove on the shoulder there.
But a car in the opposing slow lane forced him back on the median. Joel stopped there next to a tree.
“Can you drive?” he asked Archer.
Archer returned a confused and frightened look.
“Do you want to drive or shoot?” Joel said in a more demanding tone, offering him the rifle. “Choose one, now!”
“I … I’ll drive.”
“Scoot yourself in, then.” Joel left the engine running and ran around to the passenger seat, stopping to fire a round in the dirt on the opposing shoulder just beyond where the dirt bike lay, now only ten yards ahead.
He still had to push Archer to help urge him into the driver’s seat.
“Stay over on this side, until I tell you to cross back.”
Archer, with some bumbling, did put the truck in gear and move forward, on the median at first, then on the opposing shoulder. Joel kept focused on the southbound shoulder with the rifle out the open window, leveled at the brush—and didn’t even turn to look when a northbound car passed by blaring its horn.
“Speed up!” Joel yelled.
Archer hit the gas, but softly. Joel had to yell at him a second time. This was the worst spot to be in. They’d be an open target here for a skilled shooter hidden in those bushes. What the hell was keeping Archer’s foot off the floor? This was like a bad dream where you can only run in slow motion.
As soon as they passed the downed bike, Joel began putting rounds low in the brush, banging his elbow on the inside of the truck from working the bolt action.
No return fire came. No one emerged from the bushes. When they were almost caught up to Debra, Joel grabbed the walkie-talkie.
“Debra, go!”
The black truck immediately responded, racing quick off the line. Debra was indeed a good driver.
“Cross back now,” Joel said to Archer.
Archer obeyed, once again too slowly for Joel’s taste. But they were soon back in the fast lane headed southwest, and driving in the right direction on the interstate.
Joel took a minute to breathe.
Both trucks exited the interstate at the next small town. Archer pulled up behind Debra on a patch of dirt next to the off-ramp. The girls jumped out of the black truck. The guys did likewise.
Joel then explained the details of the morning’s encounter to a hysterical Jessie and a somewhat-upset Debra, who claimed to only really be upset at not being informed. Jessie was predictably upset about much more.
“How do you know that motorcyclist you shot was the same person?” Jessie demanded.
“I am 98% sure,” Joel said, on the verge of shouting. He caught himself and lowered his voice. “The 2% room for error is why I aimed for his bike, and sent warning shots across his bow when he ran for his weapon.”
“You don’t even know he had a gun!”
“He had something. Whoever he is, he stalked us and made a threatening move as soon as traffic cleared. At the very least he was intentionally messing with us, which is a pretty stupid thing to do to strangers in a survival situation.”
“Listen to you,” Jessie said. “Survival situation! My God! Is this how it’s going to be, every stinking day? I swear I don’t even know you anymore, Joel.”
“I’m the guy who’s been protecting you. Sorry your fantasy view of the world is blinding you to that fact. And now our worst immediate problem is once again behind us, but not very far. I suggest we keep moving before it has a chance to catch up.”
Debra hugged Jessie to console her, glancing at Joel with mixed demeanor. One of those mixed demeanors seemed to communicate appreciation. That was good enough for Joel. Because Jessie and Archer continued experiencing ill effects from the sun, it didn’t take much effort to reinsert them in the passenger seats.
Joel looked at the sky and shrugged before retaking the wheel. The sunshine only felt good to him.
Back in their original formation, with Joel in the lead and Debra staying on his tail, they settled into another pocket of light traffic doing a comfortable 75 miles per hour. Interstate 81 gradually shifted to a straight westerly direction. With it, the sun shined through on the driver’s side of the car.
Joel and Archer were both glad for it.
Chapter Thirteen
Roller spent a good thirty minutes hunting for his weapon along the shoulder of the interstate. He was pretty sure he heard it clang on a rock or something when he dropped it, but there were no rocks of any size around. After a while, he wasn’t sure he was even looking in the right area any more. That damn sun was messing with his mind. Going over the same ground, scanning the same patches of weeds and picking through the same brush started to produce a new feeling, and it wasn’t a good one. Like he was in a cage he couldn’t break out of.
The rabbit hole was the only thing that made sense. But what were the odds it went down there, fortuitously bouncing so deep he couldn’t reach it sticking his arm in and contorting it past his elbow? If he had a shovel he could dig at the hole like a fool, while his gun likely laughed at him from some obvious spot his eyes refused to focus on.
The bike was history. Roller couldn’t ride it into town on the flat, because when he started it, smoke poured from the engine. But, better the engine than his pecker.
Damn, this freaking sun. What was up with it today? Was it the solar storm burning at his brain? Had to be.
So, the asshole could shoot. Why didn’t he shoot Roller? Wimp. Didn’t have the balls. Roller knew that weakness would be his end if they ever met again.
He stopped a moment to ponder a way that could happen. Roller had an excellent memory if nothing else. He memorized the license plate, but where could you get license plate data now that the grid was down? He knew some people back home who could get info like that on the dark web. But the internet had to be working.
Clyde spoke to him in his head, as if an apparition. Go to the closest truck stop and wait.
That would be giving up. The asshole wasn’t too far ahead on this road. Roller just needed a vehicle. It would be a hell of a lot easier to get one if he could find his gun.
But who would stop for him? Especially with everyone suddenly so paranoid. Maybe some sucker who felt sorry for an obvious stranded motorcyclist. His chances figured to be better if he tried to hitch a ride with his helmet on, concealing his hair and neck tats. And wearing the helmet would keep his face out of the sun.
Roller put the helmet back on. As soon as he did, everything looked normal again through the tinted face shield.
And then, like a lighthouse beacon in a storm, something metal reflecting sunlight flashed at him from a clump of weeds. What the hell? Roller had gone by that spot a dozen times in his search.
* * *
“I found it out of character for you,” Sammy said. He noticed traffic had thinned out considerably after the last truck stops. Checking
the speedometer, he’d crept up to 80 so he eased off the gas. The posted speed limit was 70.
“Because I wanted to help a stranded girl?” Mick replied.
“A pretty stranded girl.”
“True, but she was also an obvious stranded motorist who needed assistance, which we were in a convenient position to provide. Besides, it was your call.”
“Yeah, but the way you two both looked at me with big puppy dog eyes…”
“You know what they say about salesmen being the easiest sell,” Mick said
“Yes, I’ve heard that one. Probably the most erroneous adage ever. Hey, we’re already at Roanoke. What a difference from yesterday, huh?”
“Erroneous adage?” Mick laughed. “Is that like, using big words so people will think you must know what you’re talking about? If you didn’t want her on board, you should have politely said no, like you did with the keys this morning. That certainly would have been an answer within expectations, from both her and me.”
“Even if she was an obvious stranded motorist in need of help, which we were in a convenient position to provide?”
“That’s your decision to make. In no way do I expect my standard of morality to match up with yours. That’s what’s wrong with the world these days. Disrespect of others’ values.”
“Now wait a second,” Sammy said. “Let’s pause and examine that statement. You used the term morality in a way that made it sound individual, and expressed a desire for tolerance of individual values.”