by Bowman, Dave
Behind the Pathfinder, Naomi stood on the pavement in her hoodie and jeans. Her long brown hair was pulled into a ponytail. She, too, scanned the area as Jack had instructed her.
When he had emptied the minivan's gas tank, Jack made his way back to the Pathfinder. He inserted the spout of the gas can and poured the gasoline into the Pathfinder's tank.
“Only about four gallons from that minivan,” Jack said to Naomi, who was within earshot. “I'll have to see what that Buick has.”
Naomi nodded. “I'll be here.”
Jack started to siphon from the Buick, which seemed to have a fuller tank. He filled his gas can, then yanked the hose out of the tank.
He closed off the gas can and bent over to pick it up off the ground. The stiffness in his back and legs slowed him a bit. He was still feeling the effects of the various fights he'd been in the past few days. Frank had gotten in some good punches, and Jack was still on the mend. When he moved the wrong way, pain flared and reminded him of its source.
Just as he was lifting the can off the ground, he heard something.
It was Naomi's voice, and it was muffled. As if a hand were over her mouth.
Jack's hand flew to the pistol at his side.
“Hold it right there.”
Jack spun around to see a young man twenty feet away, pointing a rifle at him.
Jack had pulled the pistol out and was about to shoot, but a split second later he saw something else out of the corner of his eye.
Some distance away, another guy held Naomi with one arm around her shoulders, and his other hand pointed a pistol at her head.
“Drop your weapon,” the man with Naomi growled. “Or she's dead.”
Jack's heart pounded. His hands grew cold. He paused for just a moment with the pistol still in his hand.
Where was Brent?
Behind him, he heard scuffling feet on the pavement.
“Drop it, four-eyes!” a third male voice shouted at Brent.
Jack froze. Someone was threatening Brent, too.
How many more of them were there? He, Naomi, and Brent were surrounded.
“Don't do it, Jack,” Naomi said, her eyes wide. “Shoot them.”
“Shut the hell up!” the man screamed at her, driving the barrel of the gun against her temple. She flinched.
Jack couldn't listen to her. She was willing to sacrifice herself for them. But he wasn't willing to risk her life. There had to be another way.
But there were three of them, at least. And they would kill her if he tried anything.
His mind raced. They wanted the Pathfinder. He knew that much. But he couldn't let them have it. Not after what they'd been through to get it.
But their lives were worth more than the truck. There was nothing he could do.
So with his left hand raised palm up, Jack slowly moved the pistol down to the pavement.
“OK, I'm setting it down,” he said. “Just stay calm.”
Jack released the pistol and stood back up with his hands raised. Behind him, he heard movement. Brent was doing the same.
“Good. Now kick it over to me. Nice and easy.”
The man with the rifle glared at Jack.
Inside, Jack was seething with rage. How dare these little punks threaten them? Now they were going to take their weapons.
But Jack had no recourse. At least not at the moment. He had to comply.
Jack kicked the pistol over toward the man with the rifle. Behind him, he heard the sound of metal scraping the pavement. Brent had surrendered his weapon as well.
The Pathfinder was all but lost to them.
“Good boy,” the one with the rifle said. “Now the keys. Cough them up.”
“I'll give you the keys,” Jack said as he stood squarely facing him. “But only if you promise not to hurt them.”
The guy grinned. “On my mother's grave.”
Jack reached in his pocket.
“Slowly,” the man warned.
Jack's fingers landed on the key ring with the two keys attached. He slowly removed them from his pants pocket, then held them in his palm. It was even more difficult to let go of them than he imagined.
“Kick those over too.”
Jack let them fall to the ground, then gave them a swift kick. They landed a foot from the man with the rifle. He bent down to pick them up, and Jack got a better look at him. He was short and stocky, with shaggy brown hair. But he had a viciousness to him.
“Looks like we have a new Pathfinder, boys!” the guy hollered triumphantly.
There was a chorus of whoops and cheers. Jack counted the voices of at least five or six men. There were even more than he had thought.
Jack's fists clenched. He wanted to fight back. He couldn't let them just drive off in his vehicle.
But he was out of options. It would do Annie no good if he got shot on the interstate. And he didn't want to put Naomi and Brent in danger, either.
He had to let them take the vehicle. Maybe he could somehow steal it back after dark. Or, worst-case scenario, he could find another car.
They would lose this battle. But at least they would walk away with their lives.
But all at once, confusion erupted around him. And suddenly, he knew that he was wrong.
Several men came from their hiding places behind the junipers and sagebrush. Everywhere, there was movement.
They were grabbing him. He pushed them away, but several arms restrained him.
His arms were brought back behind him. Jack kicked at them, sending one guy flying to the ground. But there were so many that more just piled on top of him. He couldn't fight them all off at once.
He felt the cold touch of metal on his wrists. The snap of the handcuffs finished the deal.
Out of breath and thrashing like a caged animal, Jack caught a glimpse of Brent up ahead. He was being handcuffed as well and dragged off away from the interstate.
Jack twisted around out of the grasp of the man tugging on him and looked back at Naomi. She was cuffed as well. The guy who had stolen her pistol, and a woman – whom Jack hadn't seen before – were already leading her away toward a side street. Naomi spun around toward the interstate one last time, and Jack caught the panic in her eyes.
Before Jack could have another thought, he felt a boot kick him squarely in the back.
“March,” ordered the voice of the leader.
Another two guys grabbed him by the arms and pulled. They were leading him down off the interstate and into the town of White Rock.
He had the distinct sensation that these people – the monsters who were laughing and joking about catching the three of them – were dragging them into hell.
21
Heather's legs were burning. She must have ridden at least fifty or sixty miles already on her bike, maybe more. She had lost track of the mile markers.
She pushed herself onward through another tiny little town.
She was hoping to do at least seventy miles that first day. If she could do the whole trip in three days, that would mean only two nights of sleeping out in the open.
But if she could only manage fifty miles a day, that would mean four days of travel.
Four days and three nights. Three nights that she would have to find some little corner to get some rest in, completely vulnerable and unprotected, and hope for the best.
But she was already exhausted. The hilly roads were challenging. And the mental energy required to be constantly alert was fatiguing as well. She was always looking over her shoulder, always jumping at every little movement. Everyone she saw was a potential threat.
And now that it was getting dark, it was harder to stay safe. Without a headlight or street lights, she could only make out what was on the road when she was nearly on top of it. She'd already had quite a few near-misses with cars people had abandoned on the highway.
She pedaled past the last houses on the outskirts of the town. It was an agricultural area, and there were fields on both sides of the road.
>
Heather was exhausted. She was disappointed she hadn't gotten farther, but she couldn't ride any more at the moment. She just hoped that she wouldn't be too sore tomorrow to put another several dozen miles of road behind her.
She came to a stop at the edge of a cornfield. Some trees were growing along the north end of the field, planted as a wind break. She hopped off the bicycle and looked around.
The area seemed to be empty.
She pushed her bike off the road and into the edge of the field. She walked several yards along the narrow dirt path, passing a few trees. Finally, she was satisfied she had gone far enough.
Despite her exhaustion, she was full of anxiety and nervous tension. She had been camping before, but this was a far cry from sleeping in a tent. She would be out in the open – easy prey for wild animals or humans with ill intent.
Not to mention the chill in the air as the night progressed. It was still early in the fall and not too cold yet, but Heather was used to sleeping indoors. Out here, she would be exposed to wind, damp, and falling temperatures before the sun came up.
She hoped no one had seen her push her bike down this path. If no one knew she was there, she would probably be safe. And as for wild animals, she figured there probably weren't many that posed a risk to her. At least, she hoped not.
She had been sweating all day, and her cotton T-shirt was damp. She remembered her father telling her once on a camping trip, “Cotton kills.” The soaked cotton shirt would keep her cold and damp as she slept, and maybe even cause hypothermia.
Remembering this, Heather had packed some fleece tops and pants, plus some wool socks. She changed into her dry, warm clothes, then prepared her bed.
She spread the wool blanket out on the ground between two trees. It was large enough to fold in half, which provided a little padding and protection from the damp earth. With a second blanket, she folded it in half, and lay down between the folds. This way, she hoped to retain some of her own body heat.
Settling into her makeshift bed, she sighed.
The ground was hard and uncomfortable. Whenever the breeze picked up, she felt the edge of cold in the air.
But somehow, she was able to doze off. Though she didn't stay asleep for long. The first couple of hours, she awoke at every sound. Every time the wind blew the leaves or a small rodent scurried nearby, her eyes would fly open, her heart thumping in her chest.
At some point, though, her restless mind gave up, and she fell into a deeper sleep.
The sound of rustling leaves woke her a few hours later. This time, it was something larger than a mouse. Much larger.
Heather opened her eyes to see someone picking her bicycle up off the ground. Without thinking, she sprang to her feet and tackled the person.
“Get the hell away from my bike!” she shouted.
The person ran out of her reach, stumbled to the ground, and looked back.
In the predawn light, Heather could see it was a girl of about twelve or thirteen years.
The girl pushed herself off the ground nimbly and ran off, disappearing through the tall rows of corn.
With adrenaline flowing through her, Heather stood up and looked around. Her hands curled into fists as she scanned the area, half expecting to see more potential thieves. She was ready to fight, just waiting for the girl's family to emerge from the field and try to steal her things.
She saw no one.
But it was strange that a girl that young would be prowling around a cornfield alone. How had the girl even seen her? The whole thing was bizarre.
Heather had come so close to losing her only means of transportation!
Filled with outrage, fear, and frustration, she spun around once more. If she hadn't woken in time, she would have been walking the rest of the way to her parents' house. And how many nights would that be, sleeping out like this with very little food and water?
She'd never make it without that bicycle.
Never in her life had she felt so vulnerable and defenseless.
With her heart pounding, she gathered her things. She folded the blankets and arranged her gear as best she could with trembling hands.
Soon, she was back on the deserted highway. She pedaled the bike as fast as she could, wanting to put as much distance from herself and that field as possible.
She told herself she would keep pedaling until she was at the point of collapse – and she hoped that she would arrive home before that time came.
22
Three men led Jack down the hill from the interstate, across the frontage road, and down a residential street. The handcuffs were irritatingly tight.
All the while, they laughed about how easy the whole thing had been.
“We'll have to tell O about this one,” the one that stunk of rot laughed. “Hardly put up a fight at all. Easiest car we've gotten yet.”
Jack was silent for a while, but his anger finally boiled over. He piped up.
“Is that why you needed twelve guys to take two men and one woman?”
The three guys pulling on him stopped and looked at each other.
“What did you say?” the big one, who was dumb as rocks, asked.
Acidic heat burned in Jack's throat. He stood up straight and squared his shoulders.
“I said, if you guys are so tough, why did it take a dozen of you to capture the three of us?”
The big guy cocked his arm back and swung his fist out toward Jack's stomach.
But the would-be assailant moved too slowly and predictably. Jack sidestepped him, and the big guy tripped and fell to the ground. The other two men – the stinky one and the bald one – bent over in laughter.
The big one, who wasn't much older than a teenager, scrambled back up to his feet. He started to charge toward Jack, but the bald one held him back.
“Chill out,” he said. “You know Oscar doesn't want us bringing them to him all banged up.”
The big guy crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. “You're just gonna let him talk to us like that?”
The smelly one rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Billy.”
Billy sniffled and gave Jack a push forward on his back. The three of them continued on, leading Jack down the road. Before long, the sound of an engine behind them caught Jack's attention.
Someone was driving the Pathfinder.
An older man drove the Pathfinder and pulled it up beside them, slowing down just enough to wave at Jack and beep the horn. The guys laughed and waved back – the man was clearly one of them. Then, he sped up and drove the car away, disappearing down the street.
Jack felt his gut contract into knots. The vehicle he had searched for – killed for – was being driven off out of sight.
He had to find a way to get free of these people. He had to find a way to get the car back. But at the moment, it seemed pretty much impossible.
A couple of blocks later, the three led Jack up the long entrance to an ornate, three-story adobe home.
The front door opened, and Jack was surprised to see the home filled with bustling activity. People of all ages were busy at work in various activities. None of them looked wealthy enough to be the owner of the upper class home. But they all seemed to be working toward some common effort. They were well-organized.
Off to the left, some people were stacking crates and boxes of food. Men, women, and even a few children worked silently, keeping their heads down and their eyes lowered. In the next room, a small group were opening boxes and sorting through contents. There were stacks and piles of paper goods, clothing, medical supplies, and food.
Three or four teenagers worked to bring boxes out the front door and down the steps, where they loaded them in wheelbarrows and small trailers pulled by bicycles. Then, other teens or adults mounted the bicycles or pushed the wheelbarrows down the street to some unknown location.
It was some kind of central processing center. These people had an efficient system in place, dealing in stolen goods. Jack figured they had raided stores, houses, an
d warehouses. And now, they were hoarding and distributing all sorts of items.
The men led Jack past the kitchen, which was full of women and a few men preparing food and washing dishes.
Finally, they dragged him into the dining room. It was an expansive room with a high ceiling. About a dozen men sat around a long, wooden dining table. They were wolfing down the food that was loaded onto plates in front of them.
Jack's mouth watered at the sight of the food – steak, mashed potatoes, corn, fresh bread, and a few pies. He hadn't had a hot meal in days.
When they rounded the corner and entered the room, Jack saw Brent and Naomi standing off to the side. They were flanked by a few other burly guys, no doubt the men who had taken Jack's friends from the interstate.
The three men led Jack to stand beside Brent and Naomi, who looked up when they saw Jack. Their eyes were filled with fear. They stared at Jack with puzzled expressions, as if to ask him what they should do.
“I'm sorry,” Brent said. “I was alert out there, I promise. I didn't see or hear a thing. Those guys just came out of nowhere.”
The man standing beside Brent grunted. “Shut up!” he barked. “I don't want to hear another peep out of you!”
Brent flinched. Jack noticed a gash on Brent's cheek. They'd already hit him.
A bit further away, Naomi looked at Jack with red eyes. She, too, seemed to be apologetic for not having seen their attackers in time.
Jack watched the men at the table stuff their faces. They were filthy. They seemed to have access to almost anything they wanted, yet they still wore dirty, tattered clothes.
The man at the head of the table finished ripping the meat off a bone, then stood up. He ran his hands over his belly, still chewing. Then he started to walk toward them. The confidence in his stride indicated he was the leader.
