For the Fallen
Page 30
“That’s it, isn’t it!” I said as BT moved to the side of the truck to talk up through
one of the openings.
“Gary! Going to need a couple of flares,” BT said. “And no it was a girl named Callis.”
He said that last part so softly and with such sadness, I do not think he meant for
me to hear him.
“Behind the seat up front,” Gary responded.
“Dad they’re just sitting there,” Travis said. “Most of them don’t even have their
guns out.”
“Well that’s a good thing,” I responded.
“All these engines idling are bound to attract some unwanted attention,” BT said as
he peeked around the truck. “What are they doing? They follow us halfway down the
East Coast and then don’t do shit when we stop. Makes no damn sense.”
“Agreed.” I tapped the side of the tank, trying to get an idea of how full it was.
“How much more on that thing?” BT asked, looking back at me.
I could see strain on his features. I couldn’t tell if he was about to have another
attack or something had him concerned. “What’s the matter, man?”
“This doesn’t feel right.” BT’s nose wrinkled up. “You smell weed?”
“Well…now that you mention it.”
Trip came around the front of the truck, a large plume of smoke preceding him. “Hey,
man, what are you guys doing here?” he asked with a big smile.
“BT’s a cop,” I said to him.
“The Indian is the fuzz?” He quickly put his joint-laden hand behind his back, a small
swirl of smoke arising behind him.
“Indian?” BT asked.
“Native American?” Trip answered.
“You’re not following the thread correctly,” I said to BT’s confused countenance.
“Enlighten me then to drug-speak.”
“He’s calling you TP, remember?”
“You have got to be kidding me! I thought we were past that. Fill the damn tanks so we can get
out of here. Guy can barely remember his own name, but this he’ll never forget,” BT
was grumbling.
“Hey, man, aren’t Indians supposed to be all mellow and one with the earth?” Trip
asked, already forgetting that BT was a cop. He had brought his joint back up to his
lips and was taking a drag.
“You don’t shut up, I’m going to scalp your ass,” BT said, pointing a giant finger
at Trip’s head.
“Dude is harshing my high, Ponch.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “He harshes mine all the time.”
“You should tell him you can’t scalp an ass either,” Trip said in a conspiratorial
tone.
“Not a chance, the Chief already looks pissed off.”
Trip got next to me and we were both staring at BT. “Yeah, I think you’re right, man.
Look at that vein on his forehead, looks like a speed bump.” Trip moved closer to
BT and had his finger out as if to feel it.
“You touch me and I’ll cut your ponytail off!” BT roared.
Trip’s eyes got huge and his mouth opened into a perfect oval. “No wonder your tribe
kicked you out,” he said, before retreating the way he had come.
“Dude, I didn’t know,” I said to BT.
“You let that guy pilot a helicopter you got into?” BT asked, shaking his head.
“There wasn’t much of a choice.”
I was luckily excused from explaining myself further when the bikers as one began
to throttle their engines. Even though they were a couple of hundred yards away, the
buildings channeled the sound effectively. It was deafening.
“Are they coming?” I shouted as I pumped furiously.
“No!” Travis shouted back.
“Pack up, Mike!” BT said, coming over.
“What’s the matter?”
“They’re hiding something. Come on, man, the extra gallon or so isn’t going to make
a difference.”
My OCD said differently. When I filled a tank I was compelled to top it off--just
my nature. So I almost ignored BT, I’m glad I didn’t.
“Here, let me see that,” he said, taking the hose. He splashed a fair amount of gas
around the access hole. “I hope this truck goes fast enough.”
“Hope? How fucking big is this explosion going to be?” I asked.
BT smiled.
“Oh shit, is that what my smiles look like? Because you look slightly insane,” I told
him.
“Get in the truck, Mike.”
I did. After a quick headcount I yelled at everyone in the back to get down.
“Pull up some,” BT told me. He jumped up onto the running board on his side.
“They’re coming!” I heard from multiple voices in the back.
BT lit the flare just as I caught movement from a side street. My stomach lurched
to my throat as I saw the huge cement truck squealing its tires while making the turn.
It was heading straight for us.
“Get in!” I shouted to BT.
I hit the gas just as BT launched the flare up over the back of the truck. More things
were happening than I could even begin to process, it was unfolding so fast. Our truck,
although a powerful beast, had all the get up and go of a snail crawling through frozen
molasses. The cement truck had taken its turn somewhere in the thirty-five mile an
hour range and was gaining fast.
For a moment, I thought that BT had missed with the flare. I saw sparks dance from
the end as it struck the ground…and then…nothing. The blue flame was nearly invisible
as the vapor caught, a rippling ribbon of flame snaked from the ground and down the
rabbit hole. The truck was still picking up momentum when I felt rather than saw the
concussion hit. The truck went from forty to fifty as the blast forced us along. We
were rocking around like a ship in a hurricane. Our back end may have left the ground
momentarily, but I’ll be damned if I knew for sure.
The cement truck was easy enough to spot, though, it was engulfed in flames. Fuckers
probably saved our lives as they blocked a path of propellant from hitting us. I had
no clue about the bikers, I’m sure at least a few of them became deep-fat fried fuckers.
The resultant fireball took up my entire rear view mirror. I would have stopped to
admire the view, but I was scared shitless.
“Had no idea it would be that big,” BT said, gripping tight onto the dashboard.
“Comforting,” I told him, my foot still securely wedged down to the floor on the gas
pedal.
By this time the cement truck was riding our ass. Most of the gas that had dropped
onto their exterior was now burning out. The tires still had a lick of flame to them,
but that looked like it would be extinguished soon as well. My hope that the explosion
was going to take them out was dashed as the driver slammed into our rear end.
“What the hell was that?” Gary shouted from the back.
“Bikers traded up!” BT responded.
I could hear bullets pinging off the heavy steel of the backend. I was confident it
wouldn’t break through, but it had to be loud as hell in there.
“You guys ready for some payback?” I asked. “Hold on!”
I waited while everyone braced themselves, or I at least hoped they did, before I
slammed on the brakes. The truck lurched as the cement truck was now battering us.
When I finally got the plow to stop, I threw it in park and jumped down.
“What the fuck are you doing, T
albot?!” BT screamed. I was already firing before the
words got out of his mouth.
“RUN INTO ME WILL YOU?” I was screaming as I came around the side of my truck.
I’m not sure who was firing from the rear of the dump truck, but the glass windshield
on the cement truck had shattered and caved inwards towards the cab. The driver and
passenger had both ducked down under the dash. That did them little good as I blew
dime-sized holes through the door.
“FUCK YOU!!!!!!” I was shredding my throat as I dropped a magazine’s worth of ammunition
into that small compartment. “How’s that feel?” My body was as tense as taut metal;
cords on my neck were threatening to snap.
“Mike, let’s go!” BT yelled.
He grabbed my shoulder and was pulling me back to the truck. The bikers were hauling
ass to come up on to us. We made two nice targets, all ripe for the picking.
“COME ON!” I shouted, beating one fist against my chest.
Bullets began to whizz by, one catching the material of my jeans down by my thigh,
the heat in its passing giving off a sweet savory scent of smoked bacon. The bullet
that caught me in the shoulder was the one that got me moving. Twice in one day, new
record for me.
“You alright?” BT asked once we were back in the truck and again moving.
We had pulled away from the wreckage of the cement truck. The boys once again had
clear firing lanes on the bikers who pulled back quickly or accelerated past as they
again started to take fire. I watched at least one biker go down with what looked
like a gut shot. Horrible way to go, and I couldn’t think of it happening to a nicer
person.
“Just a scratch,” I told BT.
“Just a scratch? I saw the exit wound in your back.”
I had a fair amount of blood pooling in my lap, and with my heart beating somewhere
in the vicinity of two hundred beats a minute, the flood was pumping out rapidly.
“Tracy! Mike needs some medical attention!” BT yelled as my head slumped forward.
I struggled to keep it up. It was becoming difficult to focus, and for a moment, I
had the sensation that my vision was tunneling. I felt myself being physically removed
from my seat. After that…it was a fade to dark. Th-th-that’s all folks! Why I had images of Porky Pig in my head is beyond me. I’d always been a big fan
of Bugs Bunny.
Chapter 22 – Captain Najarian
“Captain Najarian, sir, I thought you might want to see this,” Corporal Graham said
as he handed a stack of high-resolution images to his commanding officer.
“Well that’s certainly an explosion. Where’s this from?” Captain Najarian asked.
“Virginia, sir. Richmond. It used to be a gas station, Mobil, I believe.”
“Now it’s a parking lot. Someone blowing up a hive?” the captain asked, referring
to the zombies propensity to go into a stacked stasis when food stores became low.
“I figured the same thing, sir, so I looked at some of the satellite images before
the explosion and this is what I came up with.” The corporal handed over another stack.
“That a snow plow?” the captain asked.
“Yes, sir, and there appears to be twenty or so bikers and a cement truck chasing
them.”
“They’re not together?”
“Some of the images catch muzzle flashes.” The corporal pointed to some of the places
where he had circled a small point of light on the images.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Sir, there’s more.”
“I’m listening.”
“I went back and looked at the imagery for hours. The motorcycles have been chasing
this truck down a fair portion of the East Coast.”
“They either really pissed them off, or there’s something in there they really want.
Either way, it’s worth checking out. Get a drone up and send it out. Program the satellite
to stay on that cement truck. Let’s see what the fuss is all about.”
“Right away, sir.”
Chapter 23 – Dennis and Deneaux
“Home stretch,” Mrs. Deneaux announced as they passed through Columbia, South Carolina.
“I need to get some sleep; you stand guard,” she told him before she removed herself
from her seat and climbed back into the rear of the cab and into the sleeper.
“Yeah sure,” Dennis replied.
Her breathing became the steady rhythm of one asleep almost immediately. He had a
hard time believing that she had just moments before been awake and barreling the
truck down the highway.
“That’s some scary shit,” he said softly. He was contemplating getting out of the
truck to stretch his legs and get fresh air when Deneaux spoke.
“I don’t care what you think,” she said evenly.
“What are you talking about?” He turned around. She didn’t respond and he couldn’t
see her face.
“He was a zombie! Of course I shot him!” she shouted.
Dennis’ heart leapt. What is she talking about? he thought. He reached over and turned the dome light on. Deneaux’s eyes were wide
open yet unfocused. Like a fucking snake, Dennis thought. She’s so paranoid, she sleeps with her eyes open. He quickly shut the small light off.
“Screw this, I’m going outside. The dark and zombies are less scary.” He would have
done so, but Deneaux’s next words riveted him to his seat.
“Michael has no proof.”
Mike as in Talbot? Dennis thought.
“I didn’t kill Brian or his precious friend Paul.”
What the fuck are you talking about, you old bat?
“They died because they were stupid!” she screamed. “It’s alright though, even if
he had something, he’ll never find me now.”
There was a pause. “What the hell are you looking at?” Mrs. Deneaux asked Dennis.
“You never seen an old woman sleep? Or are you one of those perverts that likes to
watch women sleep and then do all sorts of nasty things to them. I bet that’s what
it is, isn’t it? Are you playing with your little pecker even now? Here let me see
it, I still know a trick or two.”
Dennis nearly spilled out of the truck in his haste to retreat to safer ground. He
was twenty feet away before he stopped hearing Deneaux’s cackles.
“Don’t pay any attention to her,” he told his scared penis.
When he calmed down a bit, he began to go over the words Deneaux had said in her sleep.
She’d implied two things: that she had complicity in Paul’s and this guy Brian’s deaths;
and that Mike was still alive. If she had done something to Paul, it would make sense
that she was trying to put as much distance between herself and Mike as was possible.
“What now, Dennis?” he asked aloud. “This lady is nuts and dangerous…two very scary