The Plan

by Shawn Chesser

  “I take it back,” Shorty said. “This is one fine vehicle you have here, Mr. Riker.”

  Smiling, Riker accelerated and moved back onto the road.

  “I figured as much,” said Tara. No sooner had the words left her mouth than her eye was drawn to a commotion in front of a two-story house a couple blocks ahead. A car was crashed into a large tree in the home’s front yard. Its hood was buckled and steam billowed from a ruptured radiator.

  The form at the wheel was shrouded by the remains of the deployed airbag and flailing its arms.

  A woman in a bathrobe stood on the lawn. She was next to the car and peering inside. Seeing the approaching Shelby, she stood straight and waved.

  Heading Tara off at the pass, Riker said, “I’m not stopping.”

  “Might be a Sicko in the car,” said Steve-O.

  Remembering how the house fire outside of Middletown had drawn the Bolt from the surrounding neighborhood, Riker agreed with the man’s assessment.

  ***

  They arrived at Henderson Ford a couple of minutes after passing the accident on North Central. The single-story building took up most of a city block. Its stone façade featured a number of arched porticos fronting twenty-foot-tall windows, all of them rounded off at the top. Resembling the Arc de Triomphe, the soaring stone grand entrance rose above the roofline by twenty feet or more. Continuing with the style of the windows flanking the dealership entrance, the top of the glass window in the grand arch followed its curvature.

  Above the windows left of the entry was a twenty-foot-long sign that read CHARLIE HENDERSON. Positioned prominently on the grand arch, above the lightly tinted glass, was a second sign. It was the size of a billiard table and identical to Ford’s ubiquitous blue oval.

  The lot fronting the darkened building was home to a dozen compact cars sporting dealer sales invoices affixed inside the driver-side windows.

  Though Riker was no expert, and all the new cars looked very similar to him, he guessed the econoboxes were Escorts, Fusions, and Fiestas based on the commercials he’d seen on television.

  “Maybe they keep the trucks and SUVs around back,” he said to nobody in particular.

  “Shorty doesn’t need an Expedition,” Tara exclaimed. “He’s just a little guy. Maybe a SMART car would do the trick.”

  “Hey,” scolded Steve-O. “I’m a little guy, too.” He unbuckled and planted his elbows on the front seat bolsters, a deadly serious expression on his face.

  Shorty held his tongue. He could take it just as good as he could dish it out. In that way, he and Tara were alike. And that’s why she was growing on him. Hell, he thought as he was asking to be let out at the corner nearest the side lot, all of them are growing on me.

  “I want to take you around the block,” Riker said.

  “I’m good with that.”

  “The place sure looks like it’s closed,” noted Tara.

  “All the better,” said Shorty as he scooped his dry bag off the floor.

  While Riker wheeled them around the corner, Tara shot Shorty a quizzical look.

  In response, he said, “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Tara.” Smiling, he reached into the bag and came out with a two-foot-long piece of metal. It was thin as a bank card and roughly two inches wide. One end was notched, the other wrapped with silver duct tape.

  “I know that’s a slim jim,” she said. “And I know it’s used to unlock car doors.”

  “And SUV doors,” replied Shorty, smiling.

  Interrupting, Steve-O said, “Sickos, four o’clock.”

  More like two, thought Riker as he braked at the corner curb cut to let Shorty out.

  Shorty didn’t act right away. He sat there and looked each of them in the face. Finishing with Riker, he said, “I appreciate the ride. Probably didn’t deserve it after how I price-gouged you.”

  Tara said, “How bad did you gouge him?”

  “You don’t want to know,” answered Steve-O.

  Raising a hand to silence everyone, Riker told Shorty they were square. Then he reached to the floorboard and came up with the Shockwave. “Take this,” he insisted. “A fella gave it to me when I was in need.”

  After a brief protest, Shorty gave in. “I’ll take it. But I had better go now. Those things are coming.”

  Tara said, “It’s just a couple of Slogs. You can outrun them.”

  Shooting her the side-eyed look copied from their mom, Riker said, “Never assume.” Shifting his gaze to Shorty, he added, “Beware the Bolts.”

  “I’ve lived this long on wits alone. I think I’ll be OK.”

  Riker rummaged around inside the center console and came out with a pen and scrap of paper. He extracted Wade Clark’s business card from his wallet, copied the number down on the paper, then continued to write for a few more seconds.

  Shorty used the time to stuff the Shockwave and shells for it into his bag.

  Finished, Riker handed the paper to Shorty, saying, “This guy runs a helicopter tourism outfit in upstate New York. Look him up after you do what you have to do in Chicago. He ain’t cheap, but he’s reliable.”

  Shaking his head, Shorty said, “My phone is back with Miss Abigail. Guess I could source a burner or something.”

  Reaching back into the console, Riker took out the bag containing the iPhone. “Take this,” he said. “All you need to do is find a way to activate it.”

  Eyes a little misty, Shorty stuffed the phone into his dry bag, then thanked Riker and Tara. Turning to face Steve-O, he said, “You can be my first mate anytime, Steve. I’m going to miss chatting with you.”

  Smiling wide, Steve-O said, “Me too.” He paused for a spell. Studied Shorty with his liquid blue eyes. Finally, he said, “Shorty, what’s your real name?”

  Without hesitation, Shorty said, “Jimmy Twigg.” Pocketing the scrap of paper, he shook Steve-O’s hand and was out the door with the bulging dry bag slung over one shoulder and his head on a swivel.

  Riker powered his window down. Rising up off his seat, he inspected the vehicles on the side lot. Regarding Shorty, he said, “There’s a silver Tahoe in the back row with your name on it. Sign on the window says it’s a 2014 model. Think that’ll do?”

  Shorty flashed a thumbs-up and mouthed, “Thank you!”

  Riker said, “I’m praying you find what you’re setting out to. Now get going. We’ll take care of the zombies while you cross T’s and dot I’s.”

  Hearing the Z word uttered froze Shorty in his tracks. He turned and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “I was speechless the first time I heard Tara say it, too. Until we meet again.” Riker flashed the man a thumbs-up, then drove off toward the growing pack of slow-movers.

  Chapter 44

  After watching Shorty disappear into the Ford lot, Riker regarded the approaching zombie herd. To get their undivided attention, he toggled the Shelby’s emergency flashers and laid on the horn for a solid three-count. As soon as the leader of the pack took notice and started a slow loping turn away from the Ford dealership and onto Henderson Avenue, Riker shifted into Reverse, eased his foot off the brake, and allowed the idling engine to propel the pickup away from Charlie Henderson Ford at walking speed.

  To keep the Slogs interested, every twenty feet or so he toggled the high beams on and off and repeated the thing with the horn.

  Drawing a strange look from the driver of a small compact arriving at a four-way stop, Riker ignored his sign, stopped the Shelby in the middle of the intersection, and threw the transmission into Drive.

  Meeting the driver’s gaze, he mouthed, “Get out of here. Now!” then spun the wheel hard counterclockwise and sped off west.

  Tara spoke first. “Think one block is going to do it?”

  “Shorty told me that while his wife was sick and couldn’t work, he supplemented his income by repossessing cars for a group of dealerships in Tampa. If I was a betting man, I’d put money on him already being inside the Tahoe with its motor running
.”

  “That’s stealing,” observed Steve-O.

  “Yes, it is,” said Tara. “But sometimes circumstances warrant breaking the law. We stole that Suburban from the high school lot right before we met you. Had to do it to get away from the Sickos.”

  Steve-O nodded in understanding.

  “Throw our destination into the navigation thing,” Riker said. “Pick a course that keeps us away from the larger cities.”

  While Tara typed on the touch screen, Riker wheeled west. A few blocks from the Ford dealership, they passed by a sign for Highway 607.

  “Turn here?”

  “Yes,” Tara said. “About nine miles and you’ll hit a cloverleaf. There you’ll be taking the ramp to I-10 West.” She settled back into her seat and asked her brother to make good on his promise.

  ***

  With the interchange looming dead ahead, Riker finished recounting to Tara and Steve-O everything Shorty had told him when they were alone together in Miss Abigail’s cramped pilothouse.

  Indicating the I-10 West onramp, Tara said, “Here.” Turning toward Riker, she asked, “How much money is in smuggling Cuban cigars to New Orleans?”

  “Apparently enough to put his daughter through NYU.”

  “Where does she stay?”

  “New Jersey.”

  Tara shook her head. “After what we saw in Lower Manhattan, I’d hate to still be in Jersey.”

  Steve-O said, “Lots and lots of Sickos.”

  “Thousands of them,” said Riker as he merged into heavy traffic on the I-10 West.”

  Turning to face her brother, Tara said, “You going to tell me how Chicago fits into Shorty’s itinerary?”

  After a long pause, Riker said, “When we were alone in the pilothouse, Shorty confided in me that he has a grown son in Chicago.”

  Brows arching, Tara asked, “Where in Chicago?”

  Riker accelerated and slipped over to the fast lane. Here the westbound lanes were flanked by trees so thick he couldn’t see what was happening over on the eastbound lanes.

  Settling into an easy seventy-miles-per-hour clip, he answered Tara. “We didn’t get into that. All he said was that Matt is a metro cop and happens to be a huge Cubs and Bears fan. I guess Shorty gets up there a couple of times a year to catch a game with him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, cop or no, not hearing from his kid for nearly a week with this Romero thing spreading was not a good omen. I did, however, let him know it all but assures his Cubbies aren’t going to break their World Series drought.”

  Imagining the entire playing surface at Soldier Field covered with occupied body bags, Tara said, “First he loses Abby, then Romero happens and his daughter Megan goes incommunicado in Jersey. I’m afraid Matt being a first responder will prove to be strike three for Shorty.”

  “He insisted his boy isn’t the type to fiddle while Rome is burning,” Riker said. “I guess Shorty’s a glass-half-full kind of thinker.”

  Shaking her head, Tara said, “Then I’m afraid his glass is half-full of zombies.”

  Apparently, Riker’s earlier admonishment had no effect on Steve-O. He was back to hanging on the seatbacks. Taking advantage of the sudden lull in the front seat conversation, he said, “William Perry was my favorite Bear.”

  “What was his nickname? You remember, Steve-O?”

  “Of course I do,” he shot. “I was already a teenager.”

  Tara said, “Well?”

  Steve-O said, “The Refrigerator.”

  Riker took his eyes off the road for a moment. “What’s his jersey number?”

  “Easy peasy, Lee Riker. Number seventy-two!”

  “Great memory,” Riker replied. “I was more of a Walter Payton fan.”

  “You sure you even watched football back then, Lee?”

  “He has a point,” said Tara. “What grade were you, Lee? Third, maybe fourth?”

  “Third,” said Riker.

  Taking Steve-O’s side, Tara said, “You were just rooting for whoever Dad was going for.”

  Stealing Shorty’s comeback, Riker said, “Dogpile on the old guy, why dontcha? I still say Sweetness was the man.”

  They drove in silence for twenty minutes, passing through twenty-five miles of southern Mississippi without experiencing any of Riker’s preconceived drama.

  A half-dozen miles before the I-10 crossed the Pearl River at the Louisiana state line, Riker noticed a sign announcing NASA’s John C. Stennis Space Center.

  “Keep your eyes peeled, guys. You may be able to see the top of a gantry or rocket nosecone north of us.”

  “Which way is north?” asked Steve-O.

  Tapping a finger on her window, Tara said, “That way.”

  As Riker kept his eyes on the road and drove, Tara and Steve-O craned and stared hard to see beyond the roadside trees.

  The state line came up quickly with none of them seeing anything even remotely resembling the towering white gantries they’d all seen pictures of in history books or witnessed in action on television during the many televised Space Shuttle launches.

  Sadly, all that was visible from the I-10 was a squat mirrored building on the south side. Planted beside the road shooting off northbound toward the sprawling facility was a tiny nondescript sign announcing the place’s existence.

  It was not the NASA Riker remembered. The demise that had begun with the stroke of a pen that assured a rapid defunding was only hastened by a West Coast visionary whose lofty goals seemed too far out there for Riker to embrace.

  The once-proud program that put American boots on the moon was now a shell of its former self.

  A quarter-mile from the bridge across the Pearl, brake lights flared and all lanes of traffic slowed to a crawl.

  Fearing another roadblock in their immediate future, Riker swerved to the breakdown lane and drove with the Shelby’s tires straddling the white fog line. All he could see was the top of the bridge and the long line of vehicles creeping steadily toward it.

  Sounding hopeful, Riker said, “I think we’re going to get across.”

  “No flashing lights?”

  Shaking his head slowly side to side, Riker looked to Tara. “Not that I can see. If there was a police or military presence on the bridge, we wouldn’t be moving at all.”

  “No Johnnys?”

  “I doubt it, Steve-O. They’re probably busy putting out fires in Florida.”

  “Fires?”

  “Figure of speech,” Tara said. “I think Romero is spreading faster than the authorities can stage resources and respond to outbreaks.”

  Riker said nothing. And his silence on the matter said volumes. Withdrawing inward was a trait of her brother’s Tara knew all too well. She remembered their father, a drunk in recovery, doing the same. When asked about it, Riker was wont to parrot one of their father’s favorite sayings.

  “Practicing a little wait?”

  Riker smiled at that.

  Elbows hitting the seatbacks, Steve-O asked Tara what she meant.

  Giving up on trying to get a grown ass man to stay belted in, Riker ignored the fact Steve-O was again sitting in a prime spot to become a human missile through the windshield should they get in an accident. Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, he said, “Why am I talking?”

  Confused, Steve-O asked, “What does that have to do with what the Pretty Lady said?”

  Tara met Steve-O’s expectant gaze. She said, “W … A … I … T. Wait. It’s an acronym for why am I talking? Lee doesn’t have anything important to add to my Romero observation.”

  Steve-O harrumphed and sank back into the rear seats.

  Not entirely sure if Steve-O got the gist of what an acronym was, Riker focused on the traffic.

  The vehicles in the fast lane ahead of the Shelby had been moving like a jerked length of chain: Speed up. Slow down. Stop for a spell. Speed up.

  There was no rhyme or reason for it. And it continued that way for another twenty minutes, only returning to normal beyond the midpoint
of the bridge, where, clear as day, the reason was presented to the occupants of the Shelby in the form of a black wall of smoke rising from what used to be New Orleans’ east side.

  Tara said, “Looks like someone pissed off Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.”

  “Not funny, Sis. One of my Army buddies lives in New Orleans. His neighborhood is smack-dab in the center of all that mess.”

  “I’m sorry, Bro. It’s just that I’m sort of becoming numb to it all.”

  “Right there with you, Sis.”

  Riker kept driving, staying on the I-10 West for another six miles, pushing the speed limit where he could, and sticking to the middle lane when possible.

  Coming to an impressive feat of mechanical engineering, where multiple on- and off-ramps coalesced into what looked from a distance like cement laces worked into an impossible knot, Riker asked Tara for directions.

  Setting her phone on her lap, Tara gave the navigation screen a glance, then lifted her gaze to the horizon.

  A triangular-shaped body of standing water was coming up on the right. Bordered by trees on two sides, it appeared man-made. The interchange began at what would be the base of the triangle, with the westbound lanes of I-10 paralleling its longest side.

  “You’re going to want to get to the right lane,” said Tara. “Then take the next exit.”

  “Interstate 59 North?”

  “You got it. Then look for Highway 41 North. It’ll feed you to Louisiana Highway 16. From there, just follow the signs to Shreveport.” Finished rattling off directions, she dragged her phone back up in front of her face.

  Though he was curious as to what on that little screen was so captivating to her, he kept his questions to himself, figuring she would absorb all she could, then, like a wrung-out sponge, dump it on them all at once.

  Such was her nature. Gather all the facts prior to dissemination. And in a way, save for possessing their own unique approach, they were both very alike in that regard.

  ***

  Out of the blue, an hour north by west of the turnoff to Highway 16, Tara slumped back into her seat and tossed her iPhone onto the dash.

  Here it comes, thought Riker. Looking sidelong at her, he said, “What’s up?”