I nodded. That was good advice most places, these days.
George looked at his feet. “Sure you want to do this, Fred?” he asked. “I looked at a map someone dug up last night—it’s got to be the better part of 350 or 400 miles of walking to get to Chattanooga.”
“Am I sure?” I asked. “Not really. I do, however, want to know who I am. Or at least who I was. Failing that, if I can at least get an Agent load, that will give me something to go on, rather than this limbo I’m currently in.”
“Careful what you ask for,” Williams said. “Being an Agent isn’t everything you might assume it to be. There are also a good number of Agent imprints, so just being ‘an agent’ isn’t necessarily what you’re looking for.”
He nodded to his partner. “Brown is a good load, but he is optimized for supporting another, primary Agent. While he’s great for teamwork, and together we’re far more than either is separately, it may not be what you want alone in the wilds.
“He’s right,” Brown said. “And not all of the imprinters you find will have the load you want. The bigger ones, sure, but most of them probably got wiped out in the war.” He shrugged. “Williams is also right in that support is what I do.” He handed me a small box. “This is for you; I hope it will help you along the way.”
“What is it?” I asked. I turned it over and found it was some sort of electronic device with a number of buttons and a display screen that showed “0.072.”
“It’s a nuclear radiation detector, electronic Geiger counter, and personal dosimeter,” Brown said. “It will tell you how much radiation you’re getting and warn you if you’re going into a danger zone. That number there—0.072—is the new normal background radiation reading per hour. It used to be about half that. If you see the number climbing rapidly, go a different way. If the horn goes off, run like hell.”
“Got it,” I said. “Any places I should avoid?”
Brown laughed. “Big cities, mostly, or military facilities. You can just about count on the fact that they got hit. Of course, both of those have other issues, like people who’ll want to take everything you own, so you might want to avoid them, anyway.” All of a sudden I didn’t feel much like setting out. Maybe not knowing who I was wasn’t such a bad thing.
“It’s easy to use,” Brown said, pointing to the Geiger counter. “Turn it on and read the dial. I don’t know how long the batteries will work, so I wouldn’t leave it on. Of course, it’s rechargeable…if you found somewhere on the planet where there’s still electricity. It also can log into the worldwide server…if you find somewhere with WIFI.” He chuckled. “Basically, just turn it on and read the dial, then turn it off again.”
I nodded. “Okay; thanks.” I turned to the bridge and squared my shoulders, mentally preparing myself for the journey and the challenges I expected to face. Radiation was probably the most benign and avoidable.
Williams and Brown started laughing uproariously, and I frowned as I turned to them. “What?” I finally asked, annoyed.
“You…you were…” Williams couldn’t get his thought out, and he started laughing again.
My frown deepened, and I began tapping a foot. I looked at George, who appeared as clueless as I was, and Johnson didn’t appear to be in on the joke, either. Whatever they were laughing at was lost on me, and my annoyance grew. “Do I need to kill someone to find out what the hell is so funny?” I asked when I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I…I think he’s serious,” Williams was finally able to get out as the laughter ran down. “You better tell him.”
Brown reached into his pocket and pulled out a keychain. “We couldn’t believe you actually intended to walk 400 miles each way, especially having been shot a few days ago. I mean, sure, it’s a new world and there are checkpoints and barricades all over so you might not want to be in a car…but we could at least give you a start so you didn’t have to walk the whole way.” He tossed me the keys, then turned and pointed at the dark blue, older model Ford he’d driven up in.
“It isn’t much to look at,” Brown added, “but it’s got some nice upgrades you can’t see. The windows are bulletproof up to anything smaller than a fifty cal, and there are kevlar shields protecting the driver’s compartment and the motor. It’s also a pretty sturdy motor and should keep running for at least a bit after it takes a hit. The tires are both self-sealing and self-supporting; they should give you a run-flat ability that ought to get you away from whoever is trying to kill you.”
“Thanks,” I said, my annoyance replaced with something that felt surprisingly like gratitude—something I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel again.
“It will also help you carry your gear,” he said nodding toward the pack I carried. “I’ve thrown some extra ammo for your pistols and some additional food into the back seat.”
“Thanks,” I said again, almost overcome. “I really mean that.”
Brown shrugged off my thanks. “No worries, man; it’s what us helper types do. If you really want to thank me, you’ll bring it back in one piece. It’s my car, after all, and that means I’m going to have to be riding with Williams now.”
“Hey!” Williams exclaimed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know what you eat,” Brown replied, “but you stink. I mean, your farts in a car with windows that don’t roll down? You’re just awful.” George’s younger kids giggled.
I hefted the keys. “All right, well, I guess I better get at it,” I said. “I’d like to get as far as I can during the day, where I can see what’s coming.”
“Thanks for getting us here,” George said. “I’ll never forget it.”
“I hope not,” I replied. “I’ll be back soon, and you still owe me beers for that.”
“Good luck,” Williams and Brown said.
“Safe journey,” Johnson added.
“See you soon,” Jones said, the most positive of the group.
I made it two steps toward the car before Alice ran forward and wrapped her arms around me, bumping my bad leg in the process. The display of affection was as emotionally moving as her embrace was physically painful. “Don’t go!” she exclaimed.
“It’ll be okay,” I said as George worked to detach her. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Promise?” she asked, looking up at me with tears brimming in both eyes.
“I promise.”
“Good,” she replied. “Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.” With that, George disengaged her, and I tried not to hobble as I walked to the car. I got in, buckled up, and drove off with a wave.
* * *
Two of the support Agents at the barricade on the bridge saw me coming and opened a lane for me to pass through. Apparently, Luc Boudreaux had imprinted a number of people in the aftermath of the war, with a number of specialties, creating his own private army of operatives, and all of them were now being put to work defending the island and the services needed to function.
There were a number of stores and businesses that had existed on the other side of the bridge, but all of them had been cleaned out by Boudreaux’s forces as the bombs began dropping. If nothing else, Boudreaux had been somewhat of a visionary. When it all went to shit, he’d made an army and took control of all of the resources he could, whether that was food, fuel, or personnel. He’d even stripped the local medical center, previously located just off-island, as well as the closest hospital, and had brought all of their equipment, supplies, and personnel he could convince to come back to the “safe” side of the bridge.
A large number of the locals had stormed the bridge, demanding access to all the things he had “liberated.” Those who had usable skills had been offered a place on the island, while those who didn’t had been turned away. When they returned later, armed and bent on taking it back by force, Boudreaux’s army of specialists had been ready for them. A short and vicious firefight had ensued between Boudreaux’s forces, who were firing from behind cover, and the locals, who were in the open,
which had quickly turned into a massacre. The locals had finally charged the barricade. None of them had made it.
I couldn’t see the stains anymore as I drove down the backside of the bridge.
While I didn’t know what I’d find further inland, Williams had given me an operational brief the day before on what to expect within a mile from the bridge—nothing of note. The remaining locals had tried a few times to set up roadblocks and barricades, but two of Boudreaux’s specialists were snipers. They had quickly taken out the defenders, and then Williams and Brown had led a party down and had removed the barricades and collected their weapons. Although Boudreaux had taken one of the snipers with him on his expedition, the other remained on the island to ensure the locals didn’t get restless.
Although the stores had been looted and a number of them burned, there were still people in the area. As the Ford roared by, a number of them came to stand by the road. No weapons were displayed—they obviously knew what happened to people who brought weapons within sight of the bridge—they simply stood, looking at the ground with their hands out, silently begging for whatever handout I would give them. Most had emaciated children with them, and normal people with operational psyches would probably have wanted to stop and give them food and water.
I wasn’t one, though, so it was easier for me to drive by.
The people did a good job looking sad, and they probably were, but I only had enough to get me where I was going and back—maybe—and there was a good chance that if I had to abandon the car, I would also end up in the same position—looking to scavenge wherever I could. Of course, I was armed and had the muscle memory of skills I’d had in the past. I wasn’t as fast, or as skilled, as any of the Agents, but at least now I knew why I was better than the run-of-the-mill human being.
I continued on 292, heading north, and then turned left onto 293 as 292 bent around to the east. Like George, I’d also found a map of the area, and I had spent a good amount of time deciding on and memorizing my projected route of travel. I still had the map—it was in my pack—but hadn’t thought I’d need it for a while. Of course, I’d been expecting to be walking, so I was going to need it far sooner than I had originally thought.
As I drove, I was reminded of a series of popular movie remakes from my childhood, about a guy who drove around in a post-apocalyptic world. While his world was barren and mostly desert, the road I travelled was mostly forested; still, to look at the burned out houses and buildings, and sections of forest that had burned down with them, gave me a phenomenal sense of unease. It wasn’t a matter of “if” there were people out here who meant me harm—there absolutely were bad people who would like nothing more than to capture and kill me—it was more a matter of “when” they would show up to attempt it. The further I went, and the longer it didn’t happen, the more the stress of knowing it would happen built. It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch, which had me wanting to look over my shoulders and in every other direction simultaneously.
The Company people on Perdido Key even had reports of cannibals operating on the outskirts of Pensacola; I intended to avoid them at all costs.
To that end, when I reached the main east-west highway, I turned west, away from the city. To have gone east would probably have been quicker, but it also might have meant going through areas which had been irradiated, as well as the area where the cannibals were supposed to be operating. While I had toyed with the idea of doing it off-road when I thought I would be on foot, the chances of running into a trap that would have been difficult to get out of rose exponentially with me in a car. The roads were where they’d be watching…and where any of their traps would be set.
The problem with going west, though, was Perdido Bay, and the large bridge I’d have to go over to get into Alabama. If there was going to be trouble, it was going to be there. I didn’t have long to think about it—the bridge was less than two miles away—and as it came into sight, I could tell my fears were justified; there was a barricade on the close end of the bridge.
Unlike the bridge into Perdido Key, though, the bridge here was relatively low-lying; it had a center drawbridge section to allow waterborne traffic to pass, so it didn’t need to be high off the water. The barricade, therefore, didn’t need to be in the center of the bridge so that the defenders could keep an eye on both sides; instead, it was on this end. Cars had been placed together to block traffic, and they had been augmented with several trees which had been felled and dragged into place.
I approached slowly, trying to determine the number and nature of the barricade’s defenders, and I saw two men and a woman, all armed with pistols, on the side closest to me. I could see when they noticed me—they all ran to the other side of the barricade to use the cars for cover. I slowed to a stop, scanning the forested neighborhoods on both sides of the road for additional defenders. I didn’t see any, so I decided to wait a few minutes to see what their intentions were; the way they had the roadblock, I certainly wasn’t going to be able to smash the car through it. Perdido Bay was over half a mile wide at this point, so trying to swim across it with all of my gear and food was contraindicated. If I wasn’t able to get across the bridge, I was either going to have to find a boat to steal—which would probably be defended—or go back the other way and through the outskirts of Pensacola. As neither of these were my preferred choices, I waited.
After a couple of minutes, one of the men came back around the barricade to stare at me. I waved, trying to present a good first impression. I don’t know if I was successful or not, as he held out his hands in a “What are you doing?” sort of manner. I tried to put down the window to talk to him, but it was stuck in the “up” position, probably due to the bulletproof glass. Failing that, I waved at him again.
He turned and said something to the other people at the barricade, then turned and said something to me. As I couldn’t hear him, and lip-reading wasn’t my thing, I waved to him again. He gave me an exasperated look, as if I were some kind of moron, then waved me forward toward his position. Not wanting to be where all three could easily fire on me at once, I waved him forward to where I waited. His hands dropped to his side and his head cocked to the side with a quizzical look on his face, as if trying to determine what my malfunction was. Apparently, no one else had been comfortable sitting and waiting outside of pistol range, and he didn’t know what to do with me. As having a car had put me way ahead of where I thought I’d be at this stage, I was content to wait.
Which seemed to exasperate him more. Finally, after turning and talking to his compatriots again, he asked something I didn’t have to be a lip reader to understand: “What is your fucking problem?”
I smiled and waved him toward me. After staring at me open-mouthed for another few seconds, he set his pistol on the car and walked toward me. He tried to stop about 20 feet in front of the car, but I waved him over to the driver’s side door. By this point, he was getting used to doing what I told him to and—even though he looked like he expected me to be some sort of pervert who was going to flash him when he got close—he came to stand next to me.
“Are you some kinda idiot?” he asked with a strong southern accent. “Or is there just somethin’ wrong with ya?”
“Sorry,” I said, talking loudly to get my voice to penetrate the glass. In addition to stopping bullets, it also was pretty good at stopping sound; something I really hadn’t noticed until he was alongside and talking to me. “The glass is bulletproof, and I can’t roll down the window.”
“Well, why didn’t ya get outta the damn car?” he asked.
“I didn’t know if you’d shoot at me. I’m safe in here.”
That, at least, seemed to make sense to him, and the expression that he thought he was dealing with an imbecile left his face. “Whaddya want?” he asked.
I gave him my best smile. “To cross the bridge,” I replied, as if the answer weren’t patently obvious.
That response, however, was one he was mentally prepared to deal with, and a
crafty look went across his face as he craned his neck to see into the back of the car. I sighed, wishing I’d put my supplies in the trunk; there was no way he’d missed them.
“It’s gonna cost ya,” he said.
“How about if I just don’t shoot you?” I asked. “Would that work?”
He shrugged. “Prob’bly not. The woman at the barricade is my wife. She’d prob’bly be happy she was free to date again, but that ol’ nag ain’t gonna let ya through.”
I shrugged. I hadn’t really wanted to shoot him—he hadn’t done anything to deserve it and ammo was precious these days—I’d just wanted him to know it was an option I was considering as we started the negotiation process.
“Well, they can’t shoot me,” I said. “The windows are bulletproof, and the car’s armored.”
“It ain’t armored enough to slam through those cars and trees,” he replied. “It’d take a hell of a lot more than what ya got to do that.”
I nodded, willing to concede the point as it was pretty obvious. If it had a blade on the front…but it didn’t. “So what’s the price?”
“The ammo in your back seat,” he said with a big smile, looking at the three boxes of 9mm rounds.
“Not happening,” I said, wishing again that I had put it in the trunk. “But I’ll give you one of them.”
“Not enough,” he said. “Our lowest rate for crossing the bridge is two boxes. Take it or leave it.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “We both know that a box of shells is a considerable fortune these days. Normally, I’d leave and come back in the middle of the night and kill all of you, but I just don’t have the time today. I’d like to cross the bridge, with a minimum of fuss, and be on my way. By giving you a box of bullets, I’m not making you use any extra bullets to shoot at me, and I’m establishing a relationship where we can work together, and I can come back and forth through here, over and over, and pay every time I do. That’s called developing a loyal customer base. I could go other ways…but I choose to give you my patronage.”
Don't Call Me Ishmael Page 14
