by LeRoy Clary
A man or woman killing another human for a pan of salmon should be unthinkable. Maybe cavemen fought over a meal, but not for a long time, especially in America. Any perceived slight could bright out the knives, guns, or clubs.
Sue seemed to relax as she ate and wiped greasy her hands on her thighs. She said, “There must have been fifty motorcycles back there in Darrington. They were all better riders; it was easy to see you barely knew what to do. Why didn’t they come after us?”
It was a question I’d debated with myself because there were so many possible answers. It could have been because they were scared of me but that wasn’t it. The men were new to each other and probably didn’t even know each other’s names yet. They hadn’t bonded. Why would they risk their lives for people they didn’t know? Besides, most were drinking heavily, others were on drugs, some were probably passed out, and others were like the three who came after us. Pretenders. If one of the real bad-asses had jumped on a bike and called for the others to follow him, most would have joined in the chase like a wild roundup of mustangs a hundred years earlier.
Yes, they rode the big bikes and decked themselves out like the riders in those old movies. Freedom of the open road. Bands of brothers. But most of them were like my cousin who worked nine to five jobs and rode their hogs when their wives let them escape into fantasyland an hour or two before hauling the kids to a birthday party in the family minivan.
Not that the ones in Darrington were any better or worse than others. And certainly not that they couldn’t morph into genuine bad-asses in a matter of days, those that survived. But loyalty to each other hadn’t developed yet. Besides, we’d taken them by surprise.
From what little I saw, they had taken control of the entire town, probably had killed many locals, and sent others into hiding. The weak bikers wouldn’t last long. They’d say or do something and one of the others would knock him down. Maybe shoot him. Others would arrive in town on their hogs and with each passing day, the gang would weed out the weak and replace them with stronger, more vicious members.
Then another gang, or perhaps a group of veterans, or ex-police officers, would move in. Maybe a drug lord or minor CEO of a lumber company with lumberjacks to enforce their orders. The stronger groups would kill off the weaker ones and, in a year, only the strongest would be alive, maybe ten percent of those alive today. I’d made up the ten percent statistic, I think, but may have heard or read it somewhere. It sounded accurate.
To Sue, I said in answer to her question, “They didn’t care enough about us to chase us on slick streets, I guess. Too much trouble to run us down but you’re right, they could easily have caught up with us because this is the first big bike I’ve ever been on and couldn’t get it out of third gear for twenty minutes.”
She gave me a vexed look of disapproval. “We risked our lives so you could steal a motorcycle you didn’t know how to drive?”
“If you put it that way, yes.” I didn’t look away or flinch. It was important to me for her to understand my reasoning.
“Why? I’m just asking, not saying you shouldn’t have.”
She deserved the truth. “They would have followed our tracks in the snow back to the mine tunnel and killed us. If we had run somewhere else, they would have followed on their bikes ten times as fast as we could run and caught up with us in no time. At the moment, stealing the bike seemed the right thing to do.”
“You’ve never ridden one?”
“A little one my cousin had. It was a small dirt bike. This one is different, but not that much when you get right down to it.”
“Tomorrow, you need to teach me how to drive it.”
I barked a laugh and cut it off when I realized that not only was she serious, it was a good idea. Being fourteen didn’t mean she couldn’t drive. The world had changed. Any skill she learned might help her survive—and maybe me. I said, “Okay.”
“And shoot,” she added.
Darkness had fallen with light rain. We attempted to make a tent out of extra clothing, then decided to keep it dry for the morning. With our backs to a cedar tree trunk, we watched the down-sloped branches shed almost all the drizzle and we remained fairly dry. We fell asleep, our guns at our sides, ready for action.
In the morning, we ate the rest of the fish and placed the pan out in the open so the old man could locate it. A note of thanks or a small gift was in order, but we couldn’t think of what to leave. We put the bottles of wine inside the pan and hoped he had a corkscrew.
The drizzle had quit. Sue pulled the map of Washington out again. She spread it on the ground and stared at it as if the squiggly lines had shifted or changed. I scouted around the campsite, more to be alone and think than to find anything of value. When I arrived back, Sue was still kneeling and looking at it intently, her total attention focused on one area where her finger touched.
“See something of interest?” I asked, more for conversation than expecting an answer.
“Maybe.”
I went to her side. She moved her hand across everything east and south of Everett and the river. “No way across without being ambushed. It’s the same approaching Everett from the north.” She wiped her hand across part of the map north of Marysville where we were headed if we continued on the same road.
I agreed. No way to enter the city looked safe.
She moved her hand west of Marysville, across the bay from Everett. “We could travel through here. Right?”
It wouldn’t get us to Everett, but it was probably safe enough to ride on the motorcycle, especially if we went fast. I mused, “Not much out there. Not a lot of towns or people.”
“Why isn’t there more?”
“Indian reservation,” I pointed out the colored area and the map key in the corner.
“Well, there’s still not many buildings. But look at the coastline just to the west of Marysville where the reservation begins.”
I looked and saw a few small indications of houses, a marked boat ramp, and some camping. Nothing else. Sue was focusing on that part of the map, and in her concentration, she was ignoring me. “What do you see that I don’t?”
“There are beach communities along here.” Her finger moved along the coastline. “There are houses at Priest Point because of the roads the map shows. Not many, maybe, but some.”
“So?”
“If we could cut across Marysville to the north and get onto the reservation, riding fast on the motorcycle, we could reach the coast where the beach houses are in a half-hour or less from here. If a street is blocked, we can turn around, or ride the bike around it, or turn back, but seriously, I wouldn’t expect streets to be blocked out there in the country. Not yet. Not there, so we could reach the coast about here.” Her finger pointed at the place. I saw no reason to go there. We wanted to go to Everett and the marina, not the coast of an Indian reservation.
My eyes looked to where she pointed, her destination. Still puzzled, I asked, “Why do we want to do all that? Ride through the perimeter of the reservation, I mean?”
“To get to the beach communities, silly.”
I still didn’t understand.
She rolled her eyes and spoke as if I was a doddering old man, “Look at the map, silly. Really look at it. Beach houses have kayaks. You know, those plastic two-ended ones you see everywhere. People leave them outside on their patios and inside garages at beach houses. We could snatch two.”
“And?” I asked, still not understanding her intentions. Stealing kayaks and paddling for fun was not in my future. Besides, we had a motorcycle.
She tapped her map with her finger near a place on the coast called Priest Point, then with a smug smile in place, she slowly moved it due south across the map until reaching the Everett yacht harbor from the water.
Sue was a genius. If we used small boats like kayaks, we could slip right up to where the sailboats were moored without ever going into, or trying to travel across, the dangerous city. We could go around it and enter from the waterfront
, like a backdoor.
The map made it clear how easy it would be and avoid the major obstacle holding us back. At a guess, the distance by water was five miles, maybe a little more. I started calculating, which is my way. Walking fast, a person can easily go three miles in one hour on flat ground. I’d never been in a kayak but had seen them scooting by much faster than I can walk. But being conservative, considering possible opposing tides and winds, even if we paddled half that fast, it was only a three- or four-hour trip.
Two hours if we only paddled as fast as we walk, or if the currents carried us in that direction. It was early spring, so the nights were not much longer than in the winter. Ten or twelve hours of darkness, easily. My mind was planning all the details again. The map made it clear she had found a way to get us there. The distance was doable, the time was probably less than using the motorcycle and going around, and we wouldn’t face any of the hundreds of problems we might encounter passing through a city.
Without electricity, most people were probably asleep by nine or ten at night. Many were sleeping by eight because they didn’t want to use candles or lamps and attract enemies and the sun was down even earlier than that. No lights after dark meant they might as well go to sleep. Of course, others were using the darkness to do their dirty deeds or hunt for food and supplies.
By midnight, few would be awake.
If two kayaks arrived at the harbor after midnight and the sun didn’t come up until seven in the morning, there was plenty of time to locate the right boat and use it to slip out of the harbor. On impulse, I turned and gave Sue a hug. No words were required. She had solved our major problems. We could avoid approaching Everett completely, and the same for navigating our sneaking through a city filled with unknown traps and enemies.
There would be other problems that would arise, and we would deal with them as they came.
CHAPTER SEVEN
We spent the next twenty minutes studying the map and making suggestions back and forth like a pair of giggling little girls planning a surprise party. Do this. No, try that. What if we . . ? The suggestions came fast and furious.
It made total sense to drive across the northern part of Marysville to reach the coast and work our way to the beaches, which was the far longer route but probably safer. In other ways, it made sense to ride the motorcycle to the south end of Marysville and cut across where there were only eight or ten blocks of suburban streets to ride through. Either way held advantages. And disadvantages. We went back and forth as we explored all the possibilities.
Sue pointed out that on the southern way was a road that was a straight shot through that part of Marysville which led directly to Priest Point. If we went that way, we could ride quickly through the suburb and part of downtown and spend less time in danger of meeting people.
As we were getting ready to walk the motorcycle back across the shallow river, she asked if I’d reloaded my gun after shooting the two men who had followed her at the house where we’d taken the motorcycle. I hadn’t. Her casual comment was a stern reminder that we lived in a new world where a full clip at all times was another golden rule. It was both silly and stupid not to have a full magazine in the gun when I had a pocket full of shells. The magazine ejected with a solid click and a full one replaced it. The half-empty one joined the last full magazine in my belt. I’d refill it at the next chance.
That made me think again of the thirty-two Sue carried. The requirements for her to survive had changed, too. Even in the last two days. A lot had. For the ride ahead, if we met with resistance, we needed some heavy firepower to carry that would intimidate others who would recognize and fear the weapons. Besides, her few shots left would last long and we had no more shells for the gun.
Was reminding me about my mistakes in not reloading her way of making me think about replacing her pathetic little gun? I didn’t blame her if that was her intention. If so, she had done well, and I should shut up about it before speaking. I needed her input.
We started the bike and used the engine to help move it along as we pushed it back across the river, with me again working the throttle. At one point, the tire spun and sprayed water, soaking me. As we crossed the deeper part of the river, the end of the exhaust pipe went underwater and burbled before reaching the other side and draining. I mounted the bike at the edge of the pavement, and so did she, fearful the water had damaged the engine.
As we accelerated, she waved to the hillside where the man who had given us the salmon lived. It was a nice gesture and I hoped he saw her. I kept the speed down, my eyes on the surrounding area. At a dirt driveway a half-mile down the road, I turned in and rode up the slight hill.
At the top of the driveway, there stood a house. There’s a different look to an empty house, even an unused driveway with new grass growing in the unused ruts. The house we found at the top of the small hill appeared abandoned—only worse. The large front window was broken. Only jagged spears of glass remained. One wet, limp curtain hung outside and moved gently with the breeze. Clothing, pots and pans, and even some furniture littered the lawn. I doubted the owner had done all that.
“Someone was here before us,” Sue said as she eyed the scene.
I shut the motor off and pulled my Glock free. It was not a job for the twenty-two. Sue followed me to the front door. It stood open a few inches. Instead of immediately going inside, which might get me killed, I moved to the far side of the house, then to the rear to examine all entrances. The back door stood wide open, banging a little as it hit the doorstop as the wind pushed it. The garage sat off to one side about twenty feet away, the siding and style didn’t match the house. It was obviously different construction, and not as good. I looked inside and spotted a red gas can. The motorcycle gauge showed a half tank, but I didn’t know how far that would take us—or how far we needed to travel if things went sideways. Maybe all the way to Canada. My orderly mind shouted at me to fill the tank, just in case.
Nothing else unusual caught my eye. I used my ears and nose to confirm what I saw. “Carry that gas to the bike and see if you can fill it.”
“And you?”
“I’m going inside.”
She lifted the can and hurried to the front where we parked. I went to the rear door and burst inside, rushing ahead, ready to shoot anything that moved. That showed what two weeks of anarchy can do to a man who lived alone too long. A person, dog, raccoon, or pretty much anything alive was going to be shot before it could harm me.
Nothing moved as I darted through the kitchen into the living room and down the hall to the bedrooms of the one-story structure. I drew a breath and gagged. The stench of death filled the rank air. Rotting flesh and other foul odors I did not want to identify. I bent, puked, and was forced to inhale the foulness again. My stomach again revolted, but I held it in and headed for the last doorway in the hall and threw it open. Whoever had died inside was no longer there. Blood and ocher smeared the wood floor where they had been dragged away from the bathroom by someone or something unknown. From a few smeared tracks, I suspected a bear, but that was a guess.
If there had been corpses inside the room, I’d have slammed it shut to keep some of the smell from filling the house. The room held two large windows and a straight-back chair sat at a dressing table. I swing the chair and broke out the first window, stuck my head outside and caught a lung full of air that didn’t gag me. I used the chair to break the next window on the adjoining wall too. A little cross breeze helped improve things.
My search began. A nine-millimeter without an obvious manufacturer was in a bedside drawer. I grabbed it. Inside the closet was a safe. I had no time, skill, or interest in opening it. A shotgun stood in a corner; boxes of shells were stacked neatly on the shelf above. I took one box of shotgun shells and two boxes of nine-millimeter that would fit the new gun and my own gun.
The dressing room table caught my attention. A jewelry box sat below a tall wooden unit that held dozens of necklaces on display. I upturned the jewelry box and ri
ngs, bracelets, and other items spilled out. Those things had probably meant a lot to the person who had lived here and had died in the bathroom a few steps away. The rank smells increased as I moved closer to the bathroom door. I wouldn’t open it for anything. I left all the things on the table. They were valueless. A can of beets was worth more.
On the way out, I paused in the kitchen long enough to locate the canned goods in a cabinet. I stuffed soup, stew, and barbecue beans inside the front of my jacket, zipped it to like a kangaroo’s pouch and went outside. The air smelled wonderful after the foul stench. Sue was setting the gas can aside after topping off the tank.
“Broke a couple of windows? Temper tantrum?” Sue teased.
“Couldn’t breathe.”
I dumped most of the food items into the saddlebags after tossing out more stuff from the previous rider that we would never use. I refilled my partially empty jacket pockets with new, shiny shells and felt relieved. The magazine in the gun, the two in the holster on my other hip should be enough for anything, but a handful of loose bullets in my jacket pocket felt comforting. We rolled the bike down to the paved road instead of starting the engine. Sue carried the shotgun in her other hand.
We were in a catch-22 situation. We had weapons we’d never fired, which could cost us our lives because if they didn’t work, or we didn’t know how to use them. We were essentially betting our lives that the previous owners had them in proper working order, or that there was not a safety, or the firing pin removed, was a poor wager. Inexperience with the guns was a poor excuse. I drove slowly down the driveway and stopped at the edge of the road as I explained to Sue, “We’re going to test-fire the new pistol for you and the shotgun. Quickly. Then we’re going to ride away before anyone can react.”
“Won’t that attract people we don’t want?”
