“That’s fine,” she said. “Cuff me if you need to but let me get my pack on first. You’ll need me to carry some of the load.”
“You might carry all the load,” Jeff said.
She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Maybe the sympathy she afforded him was misplaced. She had no response; anything she was likely to say would be cutting, demeaning, and unlikely to earn her anything but another beating, so she kept her mouth shut.
Jeff appeared at her door again, her handgun in his hand and pointed directly at her face. Sonyea noticed with some concern that his finger was curled dangerously around the trigger. While she briefly considered whether she should take the time to correct him on his gun handling, perhaps she’d already pushed her luck too far.
“I won’t try anything,” she said.
“Please don’t. I would have to shoot you and I don’t really want to.” He fished out the handcuff key, uncuffed her from the grab bar, and stepped away from the door. “Get out, slip your pack on, and cuff yourself back up.”
She opened the Razer’s doors and slid out, the dangling loose cuff rattling and banging on different surfaces. She stretched, doing it carefully to avoid alarming him with any sudden movements, then reached into the back seat. Jeff was standing about eight feet from her, obviously terrified she was going to manifest a weapon from thin air and gun him down. She came out with her backpack, a three-day pack in coyote brown. She slipped the straps over her hands and shouldered it.
“Anything in there I need to be worried about?” Jeff asked.
“Not sure why it matters. It’s not like I can reach any of it.”
“You could find a way.”
“Check if you want to.”
“Lock the cuffs back.”
She did as she was told and Jeff relaxed a little, returning the gun to his waistband.
“There’s a duffel bag in there you can throw over your shoulder,” she pointed out. “The food is stored in that white five-gallon bucket. Make sure we each have a couple of bottles of water and food.”
Jeff dumped the contents of the bag onto the ground and added the suggested items. He unzipped her pack and made room by tossing her spare clothing out, leaving just enough room for four bottles of water and a couple of MREs.
She stared down at her clean clothes discarded on the ground. “Did you have to do that?”
He shrugged. “You’ll never be back here again. What does it matter? Would you have preferred I fold them?”
She didn’t answer.
He nudged her pack. “Get moving.”
She made note of the fact that he didn’t take the map. Either he remembered the way from here or thought that she did. She didn’t ask. If he was relying on her, maybe she could use that to her advantage. She would see if the opportunity presented itself.
32
Robert drove his side-by-side leaning forward in the seat, as if his posture might urge the machine forward. He looked like a kid trying to get a little more downhill speed out of his Big Wheel. The Razer had been a lot faster, designed for speed, handling, and recreational off-roading. Robert’s current ride only operated at about one-third the speed and was something a farmer might ride around to check the fences or spray weeds. The only positive of this machine was that the smaller engine increased fuel economy. It was a feature that would get Robert further on a tank of gas but would be totally pointless if he couldn’t catch up with Jeff.
He navigated by handheld GPS, taking shortcuts when he could find them. When he saw a turn that might save him a few minutes, he took it, hoping those few minutes extra might help him gain ground. He pressed the machine hard, pushing it over banks, rocks, and downed trees. Despite its more utilitarian design, it was just as tough as the Razer. Then it overheated.
He wasn’t sure what happened at first. He’d been on a long incline, ready to top a hill when the engine just quit, the machine coasting to a stop. The simple dash didn’t have a tachometer but it was probable that he’d been close to that red line. Robert pulled a bandana from his pocket and scrubbed at the grimy dash, trying to reveal what the various dirt-encrusted gauges said. The one with the flashing red light, when cleaned up, displayed a thermometer icon.
Robert groaned, then smacked the dash with his fist. He climbed out and stomped around, agitated and angry with the world in general. They were likely hours ahead of him anyway. Every moment that he sat here idle they were putting even more distance between them. He would never catch up at this rate.
He yanked his GPS from its pouch and examined the screen. The topographic lines on the display showed that his route was mostly downhill for the next short distance. He would be going down the other side of the hill he’d just climbed. Perhaps he could coast for a while. He wouldn’t have power steering with the engine off but he could manage as long as there were no steep turns. The air flowing over the engine may even assist the engine in cooling down.
He climbed in the cab, the seat pressing his clammy body armor against his back. It was so tempting to take it off but he wouldn’t do it. With his luck, taking it off would inevitably lead to taking a bullet. He released the parking brake and dropped the shifter to neutral. The heavy side-by-side rolled forward a few inches, then stopped.
Robert stuck a foot out the door and pushed like he was on a scooter. He’d apparently overestimated his own strength, because his first efforts accomplished nothing except painfully straining his groin muscle. He climbed out and braced his shoulder against the roll cage. He dug in and shoved hard, gaining several inches with each wave of effort. He could see a point ahead where there was an obvious change in grade. Soon he was there and the machine gained momentum until he was hardly pushing at all.
He hopped back in the seat and the vehicle rolled faster. Exactly as promised by his GPS, he soon hit a steeper grade and the machine picked up even more speed. He felt confident. He remembered this section from the trip out. It was mostly gentle turns for a little over a mile, then the trail crossed a wide creek. Hopefully, by that point, the vehicle would have cooled sufficiently that he could start it and continue his journey. He could do this. He just needed to keep calm.
The vehicle coasted with no more assistance from him, although at a much slower speed. In an effort to distract himself from his waves of frustration, he got his handheld radio out and began experimenting with different frequencies. He tried raising Sonyea but got nothing. He tried the frequencies monitored by Arthur’s compound with the same results.
He exhaled violently, rage making him want to bash the radio to bits. He had no right to expect anything from it, though. Deep in this forest, blocked in by surrounding mountains, there was probably no one in range. His anger was merely a symptom of his frustration with everything and all of it went back to a single cause—he wasn’t home with his family. He was trying hard to do the right thing and the world was erecting barriers in front of him at every turn.
He tried to push those thoughts from his head as the decline increased and the machine picked up speed. Now he was making good time. He turned the key enough to activate the gauges, glanced at the indicator lights, and found the temperature gauge was no longer flashing. That was good. The wind running over the engine was helping. If he could leave the engine off until he reached the bottom of this hill it might save him a little fuel. It was probably a ridiculous thought, reminding him of old people he’d known in his youth who insisted on turning their cars off or shifting into neutral on long descents to save gas.
By the time he hit the creek, he was coasting way faster than the twenty-five miles per hour top speed of the machine. He thought he might be going as fast as forty. The machine was bouncing and jostling at the edge of control. Before he thought any better of it, he hit the wide creek at the bottom of the hill at full speed, hoping that momentum would carry him across and up the opposite bank. The water was deeper than he remembered and cascaded over the top of the vehicle, high plumes spraying from the tires and skid plate.
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br /> He couldn’t see out the windshield through the wall of water in front of him. It sprayed in the cab from all directions, soaking him and all his gear. It felt good with the muggy heat and put a smile on his face. The momentum hadn’t fully carried him across the creek though. The water bogged him down like hitting a deep mud hole and he came to a stop near the center of the forty foot wide creek.
The exhilaration of his joyride dissipated quickly. The sense of impending doom, the weight of responsibility, bore down on him with a crushing weight. He turned the key. He needed to get on with things. The machine, which had always started right up, didn’t catch. Robert adjusted his foot on the brake, making sure he was pressing hard enough to engage the safety switch there beneath the pedal, and tried again.
Nothing.
He tried several more times to no effect. He put it in gear, then out of gear. He let it rest for a minute then tried again. Nothing worked. He sighed aloud and climbed out into the knee-deep water. It felt good for a few seconds, then quickly became numbing cold as Robert removed gear from the cargo bed and pitched it into the cab. He tilted the cargo bed back and examined the engine. It was completely soaked.
He unsnapped the air filter housing and found water inside it. He held the black plastic cover up, tilted it, and creek water poured into the stream. He yanked the sodden air filter out of place and tried once again to no avail. He’d killed his ride.
How could be so stupid? What else had he killed, or at least doomed, in the process? Sonyea? His family? His own chance of survival?
He shouldered his pack, grabbed his rifle, and waded to the shore. He sat down hard in the damp soil and considered his options. The vehicle had a winch. Should he winch it to shore and wait for it to dry out or should he proceed on foot? There was no guarantee that sitting for even a couple of hours was enough to make the engine start. Meanwhile, what was he going to do during that time? He was too wound up to just sit patiently or take a nap. He would go stir crazy.
Walking meant moving at a slower speed but at least he’d be moving. He got out his GPS and checked his location. Just beyond the creek there was a state road. From that road, it was probably about eighteen miles to the compound. Robert checked his watch. It was 4 PM. While it was getting late, he still had hours of daylight. In the five hours up until dark, he could cut that distance in half. If he chose to sit around and wait for the engine to dry out, he might still find himself having to walk out of here but having lost hours of time. It was no decision for him.
He would walk.
He got to his feet, double-checked that he had all his gear, and climbed the short stretch of trail leading to the paved two-lane road. He stopped in the middle of the road, standing directly on the center line. Easier walking lay to both his left and right. Paved. Flat.
To either side of him were fresh prints. Two muddy tracks made by knobby off-road tires such as those on his disabled side-by-side. It was also the type used by the Razer he was pursuing. What were the odds that two such vehicles recently came by here? Probably very slim.
Dropping to his knee, Robert touched one of the muddy prints, running his finger across it. It was dry as chalk. He looked at an area where the mud was thicker, where perhaps the tire had discharged a clump of mud as the tire flexed. He squeezed that clump between his fingers and it was moist beneath the drier shell. He decided it was probably from today. Any longer in this heat and it would be completely dried through, baked by the hot pavement.
The tracks led across the road and up the trail access. It was the way they’d come. At least now he knew for certain that he was on the right track. For whatever reason, Jeff was headed back to the compound. He started walking, using the same long strides that he used on backpacking trips when he wanted to get as much distance as he could from each step. Still, it was hard not to be aware that he was probably travelling up this incline at two miles per hour and they were able to travel it at highway speeds as long as they had clear trail in front of them.
“Focus,” he told himself. “Don’t waste time thinking about variables you can’t control.”
When the trail flattened out, he began running. He knew he couldn’t keep that pace up forever but he often ran with a light pack. He would do this for a while, walk until his breathing stabilized, and then turn the pace back up.
He’d covered only a quarter mile of trail when a bend in the trail revealed the Razer stopped before him. Robert froze, then angled off-trail and took cover. For a moment, he did nothing but watch. He carefully examined the vehicle and all of the area around it, watching for movement, scanning for dead bodies. He found nothing.
As quietly as he could, he broke cover and eased forward like he was stalking game. He watched each step, aiming for greenery or moss over twigs or anything crunchy. His shotgun was at high ready, safety off. By the time he reached the vehicle, he’d still seen no signs of movement. He eased around the driver’s side looking for bodies, or a trap.
No bodies. No blood.
The packs were gone, as were Sonyea’s weapons. Robert checked through the rest of the supplies and found some of the food missing. The key was in the Razer and he tried to start it. It turned over but wouldn’t start. Had they taken on water too? He didn’t think that was likely. This vehicle was better protected against problems like that. It had to be fuel.
He recalled that he’d started to fill the Razer up before they descended on the campground. The can of gas he’d forgot to put in the Razer was the can that allowed him enough fuel to escape in his own vehicle. There had been no more full cans aboard the Razer so all they’d had was what remained in the tank. Apparently, that was enough to get them this far but no further.
Robert considered his options. He could keep running or he could try to fuel up the Razer and continue in it. They’d come prepared to siphon fuel if they ran short. They had empty cans and a length of tubing in the Razer. Robert grabbed them and headed back the way he’d just come, moving a little less quickly but with a smile on his face. If this worked, it would be a game changer.
Robert threw both hands in the air and cheered when the Razer started up. He’d managed to get a little over two gallons from his last ride, though he didn’t think that would get him very far in this more powerful vehicle. Although he promised himself he’d take it easy and not have a lead foot, it was hard to resist the rush of exhilaration from being in a motored vehicle again.
He didn’t know how far Jeff and Sonyea could have gotten. When he placed his hand against the Razer’s oil pan, it was warm to the touch but not hot. He didn’t have any science behind his estimate but he imagined they’d probably put a couple of miles in on foot by this point. Even in the worst scenario, as long as they stayed on this trail he’d find them by nightfall.
That thought raised its own set of questions. How would he find them? If they heard the vehicle approaching, they’d surely not throw a thumb up and ask for a ride. He imagined Jeff would scurry for the shoulder like a rat ducking a flashlight and they’d wait for him to pass. They would also be leaving more subtle signs as they moved through the forest. If he was following them on foot, even a tracker as unskilled as he might have the occasional chance of finding a clue. At the speeds this vehicle travelled he would not see anything but the road ahead.
Did that mean he should abandon the vehicle and proceed on foot? He didn’t like the idea of that. Should he stop occasionally and get out to scout on foot? If so, how often should be do that? What would be the point? The sound of the approaching Razer would travel so far ahead of him that they’d hear him coming.
It was frustrating to think he’d come across such an advantage to only find that it put him at a disadvantage. He decided there was no way Jeff, and hopefully Sonyea, were going to make it back to the compound by tonight. He would allow himself fifteen miles and then he’d stop and wait on them. Hopefully if he passed them, they’d assume he went on to the compound and wouldn’t be concerned about him lying in wait for them.
He should have seen that as a warning sign.
33
When Sonyea heard the first rumblings of an approaching engine, she did her best to try to cover for the sound. While she wasn’t certain it was Robert, it was possible. She hoped it was him, anyway. She needed it to be him. She scuffed her feet as she walked. When the volume of the engine rose over the level of disturbance she was creating, she took to humming, then to singing.
Finally, Jeff could stand it no longer and lost it. He yanked the rope tied to her handcuffs, stopping her in her tracks. “What the hell are you doing? Shut up!”
In the pause between his outburst and her reaction, he heard it. His eyes grew wide and he immediately understood she’d been trying to distract him, to cover for the possible approach of a vehicle.
“Off the road!” he shouted, jabbing his finger toward the shoulder.
“What?” she asked. “They might not even be coming this way.” She needed to delay him. If she could slow this down, Robert might show up and save her. He might come around the bend in the road at any moment and this ordeal would be over.
To Sonyea’s surprise, Jeff charged her, shoving her toward the edge of the trail. With her hands cuffed, she was unable to maintain her balance or even catch herself. She fell hard, crying out before she tumbled over the bank and down into the thick trailside brush. She was already hurt from her various scuffles with Jeff and the pain was overwhelming. Her head throbbed and all of her bruised muscles cried out.
Compound Fracture Page 21
