by Darrel Bird
They prayed over their meal that evening, a strange ritual for any of them.
The Way Home
They talked way into the night, and then John announced it was time they all turned in. “Nell will help you all get bedded down. Some of you will have to sleep in the other cabins; some of you can sleep here.”
Virgil awoke the next morning to the sound of skill saws, generators, and hammers banging on wood. He went into the bathroom and turned on the faucet and some brownish water came out. He washed his face and headed down the stairs to the kitchen. The women were just finishing washing the dishes. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he complained.
“John said to let you sleep. He wants to talk to you. He’s out back feeding the animals; he’ll be in shortly,” said Nell. Jan looked at her, but said nothing.
Virgil walked into the living room, and sat down in one of the four easy chairs spaced around the big room. The furniture was covered western style; everything spoke of the early west. Indian blankets hung on the walls, and over the fire place hung an old Winchester and a pair of spurs. Nell had a good eye for decorating in a certain theme. He closed his eyes; he was still tired, but felt a lot better. John came in a few minutes later, and took the chair across from Virgil.
“Virgil, I am too old to lead this group. I talked to Zack, Gus, and the doc, and they all say they would pick you; you’re a natural born leader.”
“This situation is not going to get any better, and there is no future to look forward to here on this earth. If this is any indication of the scriptures spoken in Revelation, then three more of the horsemen will ride.”
“I paid no attention to the Bible before this, and I should have. I put my faith in the wrong things; now I have put my faith in God. I believe that men on the earth are under judgment, a last chance to accept what the Bible tells us, as it were. All the years his Spirit drew me, and I didn’t listen. Now we have to go on faith alone, either accept or reject, as you can see by the things you saw on the way up. Many men have gone all the way bad, and they will come after us, because they will hate what we have here.”
“Daily Bible studies will be the norm, and the unbelievers will depart from this group, never to return. I believe there are probably groups like this all over the world, the ones who will believe, and the ones who will not. There is just no middle ground any more, and I believe you know this.”
“I want you to lead this group of budding Christians, protect them, and fight for them or die for them, if necessary. I want you to think about it. Don’t give me your answer today. Take your time, because what you commit to will either make you or break you.”
San Francisco Blues
Dwight Turner unlocked the door to the Chop Shop, the business he had run for eight years. They built choppers for whoever could afford them, but now the business was gone, and all there was left were the bikes that were unfinished.
He opened his tool box and selected some wrenches and knelt by his latest creation; it was to be a bagger for a lawyer type who had come in and contracted for the bike, and he had paid the money up front.
All the bike needed was to tighten up the bolts that held the engine to the frame. He tightened the four bolts and walked over to the corner of the shop and picked up a Harley trunk, and he mounted that behind the seat of the bike.
He then stood back and lit a cigarette and viewed his completed work. The bike hadn’t called for a trunk, but it did now. The lawyer was dead and so was the rest of his crew. The money the lawyer paid was in a dead bank account in a dead bank a few blocks away, but it would never do him any good, those vaults would never open again.
Tomorrow he would stock the bike with food and water. He was going to leave San Francisco for good. He intended to check and see if his sister was still alive in Stockton, and the bike was his best bet at making it there what with the clogged free ways.
He closed the shop door and walked down the silent street in the commercial section of San Francisco. He heard a gun shot, in the distance, and wondered who had died at the end of a bullet this time.
Gun shot wounds weren’t something new to him. He had dealt with it most of his life, and he was getting sick of it.
Now he was free of the club and free of the bikers demanding free work and parts for their bikes. He had joined a club thinking it would be good for business. That was a big mistake as it turned out the, club was just a front for drugs and gun running. The bikers had almost bled him dry.
He walked back to the hotel and climbed the first flight of stairs to his commandeered hotel room, funny how things have turned out; he thought, before all this only the rich could afford to stay here, now the rich are dead and anybody can stay here.
The next morning he opened the shop doors, cranked up the chopper and drove it out of the shop, leaving the shop doors open to whoever wanted anything out of it.
The lawyer had ordered a full blown S&S engine that had cost him over fifteen thousand dollars. The engine gleamed like a diamond in the early morning sun. The usual fog had put off coming ashore this morning, a fact for which he was thankful.
He threaded his way across the Oakland Bridge, making his way between the stalled cars; he tried not to look at the bodies that were lying in repose every few feet that he made. The bridge was a solid traffic jam and he could barely thread the bike through the stalled vehicles.
He caught the Sacramento-free way and headed east. It was almost impossible to get down the freeway, and he knew without the bike he could not have made it at all.
Eight hours later he came to Sacramento. As he came to an overpass, he heard a shot ring out and at the same instant his right hand rear-view mirror exploded into shards.
He gunned the bike and he didn’t hear another shot, “Probably some crap head just shooting to terrorize me.” He said as he kicked the throttle.
He rolled on out of Sacramento toward Stockton, taking the old 99 interchange and in two hours, he rolled into Stockton.
He went straight to his sister’s house and parked the bike in the drive way. He knocked on the door, but no one answered. He turned the knob, and the door opened freely.
He found the corpse of his sister lying across the bed, and he fled from the house.
Where to now? He wondered as he came to a straight stretch on the freeway south and gunned the engine. The bike leapt like it had been shot out of a cannon, the 1800 cc S&S engine shoved the bike to a hundred miles and hour, then a hundred and twenty, and he still had more throttle as he rocketed down the freeway.
He saw three bikes ahead and began to throttle down. He reached down and lifted the 45 out of the side holster as he began to pass the bikers.
One of the bikers pointed a gun at his head, and he shot him off the bike as he passed and gunned the bike full throttle, the wind screaming past his ears.
He kept the bike at a steady ninety miles an hour for the better part of two hours, barely missing an over turned truck in the freeway.
He slowed down and found an exit and followed that out into the country until he came to an orange orchard by the side of the road, he turned down one of the rows of Orange tree’s until he was hidden from view of the road and cut the bike's engine.
He made a fire and opened a can of beef stew just as the sun went down. That night he dreamed of a ranch he came to, and there were people working the crops along a river bank.
The next morning he reheated the coffee from the night before, and sat thinking. I probably should have turned north to Oregon, and I could still go back, but I feel like going south toward Bakersfield first, then I may cut across and hook the I-5 back north.
He threw the coffee on the fire, and after he repacked the bike he left the orchard and turned back the way he had come. When he got to the freeway, he turned onto it heading south.
He had gone no more than a mile when he came upon a couple attempting to fix a flat and without a good reason he stopped along side the car to help.
“Need help?”
“
Thank you.” Said the man, “The wheel nuts seem rusted on this old car, guess it has been a while since they were off.”
He took the lug wrench and attempted to turn the wheel nut. “I see the problem; someone turned the lug nuts too tight and striped them; I doubt if we can get them to hold when we put the spare on. Look…I can go back up the road ways; I saw a car sitting at a house; it may run.”
“I hate to put you to all that trouble sir.”
“It’s ok, but one of you will have to go with me to drive the car, and the other one will have to take the risk of staying here alone; I hate it, but looks like the only way.”
The man thought a minute and looked at his wife, “Its better you take your chances with this man than to stay here alone.”
“I’m afraid for you Dan, I don’t want to leave you alone.”
Dwight walked to the bike and took the 45 pistol out of the side holster, “Here, put this under your shirt, and if you need to, shoot to kill. We’ll come back as soon as possible.”
“Can I trust you with my wife mister? She’s all I have.”
“Yes.”
“Get on lady, we have to hurry; it's not safe to sit very long.” She climbed on the bike behind him, and he turned the bike back north. They had gone about five miles, much further than he thought when they came to the car. There was a body in the driver's seat. He pulled the body to the side of the road and switched on the ignition; all the lights lit, “So far so good.” He cranked the car; the engine cranked slowly, but after a few growls it fired off. He revved the engine a bit to warm it up, “Ok, get in and follow me; I aim to go fast so don’t fall behind; we have to get back to your husband.”
“Ok.”
He was impressed with the woman as he accelerated the bike to 75. They soon pulled up to the car where the man was waiting.
Dwight walked back to the drivers' window, “Kill the car; we need to talk a minute.”
The woman killed the engine and there was silence. “First… introductions, my name is Dwight Turner.”
“We are Dan and Pam Ramsey, pleased to meet you Mr. Turner.”
“Call me Dwight, may I ask why you were going south?”
“To tell the truth Dwight, I don’t really know why; I just felt like going south is all.”
‘What do you think has happened?”
“My wife and I think we are in the tribulation spoken of in the Bible.”
“I think you are right, but why do you think we are still alive?”
“I don’t have a clue unless God has something for us that we need to do. I wish I had paid attention to the Bible way before now, but we have to deal with the here and now, not sit and drown in regret.”
“Do you want to travel together for a spell?”
“That would be good; we would have a better chance of making it with more than just the two of us.”
“Ok then, let's siphon enough gas out of your car to fill my bike. If I turn off somewhere, feel free to go on by yourselves. Let's roll. I’ll not go faster than 50 and as slow as it takes if the road is blocked.”
They motored several hours until Dwight saw a sign that said Porterville exit, and he stopped in the right lane and walked back to the car.
“I think I am going to head for the mountains about here. You can follow me or not.”
“I think we’ll follow; I don’t feel like we should go any further south.”
“Ok then.”
