by Riley Flynn
Alex eased off the gas. The route was blocked. A tree, a big one, had fallen across the road.
“Look.” Joan tapped on the driver’s seat. “There’s a fence there. That whole side of the road is fenced off.”
She was right. Two hundred yards of chain-link fence broke up the line of trees. Inside, a flat green lawn retreated away from the road. The car stopped in front of the tree.
“There’s buildings at the back,” Cam observed, his hand across his forehead. “Plenty of them.”
Joan raised the binoculars.
“I can’t see much. Maybe if I look through the fence. No white crosses on the doors, though.”
“Wait here, I’ll check the road. I don’t really want to stop now.”
Closing the car door behind him, leaving the others inside, Alex walked up to inspect the obstacle. Must be an old tree, brought down by nasty weather. He ran his finger across the bark.
Too big to push through, too heavy to move by hand or with the car. At one end, the unfurling branches, freshly shorn of their leaves, fell right up against the fence. No way around on that side. Alex decided to check the base of the tree, which lay covered in shrubs and bushes ten feet back from the road.
There would be charred marks if it was lightning. Plenty of splinters if the wind took it down. Be careful.
Reaching the shrubs, he began to brush aside the greenery. There should be roots exposed. Earth everywhere. There wasn’t.
The trunk had been cut. Purposefully. Cleanly. A chainsaw, maybe. Humans at work, either way. Still trying to pick apart the mystery, he heard a knocking.
Tap, tap, tap.
Joan was tapping on the car window, waving her other hand, attracting his attention. Alex shrugged, moving his shoulders, making sure she noticed. The waving stopped and she pointed toward the other side of the road. Behind the fence. Movement.
Walking back toward the car, Alex tried to see who was approaching.
A man, that much was clear. Still too far away to see anything.
The sound of tapping on the car window again. Joan pointed at the man and her hand twisted into the shape of a gun, pretending to fire.
He was armed. Alex moved faster, dropping his own hand to his hip. The gun was in the car. In its holster, balanced in the cup holder by the handbrake.
Unarmed, Alex walked faster. Quicker and quicker toward the car. Get the gun in time. Just in case. Maybe this man’s friendly, he thought, but why take the risk?
“Stop! Stop right there!”
Alex had a hand on the car door. Not quick enough. The gun stayed inside.
“Reach for the sky, boy.”
Alex lifted his arms, looking down and through the window at Joan. He flicked his head toward the cupholder. The holster. He hoped she understood.
“Who the hell are you people? What are you doing here?”
The man was middle aged, wearing a long beard and a heavy coat. A plastic mask was tied tight over his mouth, muffling his words and pinching into his facial hair. A woolen hat was tucked down over his ears. In his hands, he held a long-barreled shotgun. The hunting type. It pointed through the fence, right at Alex’s chest.
“We’re just trying to make our way. Got caught on the road. We’ll turn around now.”
“You don’t drive on to my land like that. Who you with? Army? CIA?”
“We’re not with anyone. We’re just trying to get home.”
“They warned me about people like you. Them CIA types.”
Alex, hands in the air, could see the man’s grip on the gun tightening.
“People like who?”
Alex tried to keep his words measured and calm. The man worked himself up, increasing his blood pressure with every sentence.
“You sick? I don’t want no sickos here.”
“We’re not. We’re just trying to get home. We got stuck behind this tree-”
“My tree.”
“Sorry, we got stuck behind your tree and now we just-”
“Come on to my property like this, on to my land? You think I’m gonna take that? What’s in the car?”
Guns and supplies, Alex thought.
“My friends and our dog,” Alex said.
A voice shouted from the buildings behind. Flat, hollow syllables. Alex couldn’t pick out the words.
“I’m asking now,” the man with the gun shouted over his shoulder. “Get on that radio, tell them we got something.”
The man turned back to Alex, pointing the gun through the fence.
“I asked what you got in that car, boy, you better tell me.”
Alex shrugged.
“I’d be happy to show you. You can come and take a look, if you like.”
The man grunted. Leaving the gun pointed flat, he began to walk along the fence, coming to a gate. With one hand, he dialed in a code and Alex heard the lock spring open.
The man walked through, right up to the car.
Approaching, he bent down and tried to glance inside. He was on Timmy’s side, with Joan in the seat behind. Walking around the rear of the car, leaving the shotgun trained on Alex, he tried looking in through the rear windows. He whistled.
“Oh, boy. You got yourself some kit in there.”
“It’s nothing much-”
“I’m glad you think that, cause it’s mine now.”
Still walking around the car, he passed Joan’s window and found himself face to face with Timmy. He bent down low, looking the passenger right in the eye.
Timmy sat still. Almost smiling. Then jumped.
The movement surprised the man, made him spring back from the window.
Joan opened her door with force, knocking the man to the ground.
Alex ran directly to the driver’s door, opened it and threw himself inside. Turned the key. The car didn’t start.
“Go! Go!” Joan shouted from the back seat.
Alex tried the keys again, his hand numb with excitement and fear. The engine struggled. Nothing.
The man was scrambling to his feet, his head appearing in the window. His mask had come loose and he held it in place with one hand.
“Timmy!” Alex gave a worried shout. “Door!”
No need to ask twice. Timmy leaned back, grabbed the handle and then threw his weight behind the opening door. It was enough to slam the man to the ground, knocking the shotgun from his hand.
Alex was out of the car. He ran around, not giving the man a second to recover. With a satisfied grunt, he kicked away the shotgun and aimed a foot square in the man’s ribs.
A squeal of pain.
“Hey!” A voice called from far behind the fence. “I’ve called them! They’re on their way! What the-”
Don’t look up, Alex told himself, trying to keep calm. The man had turned his head to hear the woman’s voice.
Alex kicked him again, this time laying the front of his sneaker across the man’s chin. It felt good, he noticed, ticking himself off for enjoying the fight, reminding himself of the threat.
Footsteps came from behind the fence. The threat was real. The enjoyment was fading. Someone was running toward them. The man looked up, bleeding from his mouth. He shouted.
“Call them! Call them now! They told us!”
The man talked too much. Alex aimed a third kick at the man’s ribs, knocking the air out of him. There was no satisfaction this time. Real danger had reared its ugly head.
Now, Alex looked up. A young girl was running toward the fence.
“Papa!” She let out an anguished squeal, stretching out her hand. “They’re coming!”
Alex desperately looked back at the car. Cam had jumped into the driver’s seat. He was turning the key, trying to start the engine. It caught.
“Who did she call?” Alex shouted at the man wheezing on the ground. Angrily, he looked up at the girl. “Who did you call?”
Blood pouring between the man’s teeth, his face spread into a smile. He laughed.
“They told us to wait for you, b
oy.” His laugh turned to a cough but he couldn’t stop. “They told us to stop you.”
“Who? Who told you?” Alex could feel the desperation creeping into his voice.
“Alex!” Timmy shouted from the car. “Come on, man!”
“Who told you?” Alex leaned down, inches away from the man’s face, worried that there was far more going on here than he’d realized. “Who have you talked to?”
The man just laughed. The girl, still a hundred yards away, began to scream as she ran.
“Alex, come on!”
Alex looked from the bleeding man to the girl, from the fallen tree to the chain link fence. He kicked the shotgun away, losing it in the grass, and ran to the car.
“Drive! Drive!”
The car accelerated, moving backward. Alex could feel the energy inside the car, a heady brew of thrilling terror and anxious adrenaline.
“Timmy. Cupholder!”
The man was scrambling to his feet. Timmy looked down, saw the pistol in the holster. Leaning out the window, resting his thin wrist on the wing mirror, he emptied the clip.
Every shot missed and Alex cursed but chucks of wood exploded from the fallen tree trunk. Enough to make the man and the girl duck out of the way.
Cam spun the car, his actions an ocean of calm amidst the fearful storm, almost crashing into the undergrowth as he slipped through the gears.
Alex sat in the back, squeezed in between Joan and the dog. He could see the paleness spreading across Cam’s face, could see the jaw clenching and the knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. He was amazed that the man could act so calm while his body began to panic.
Behind them, the shotgun boomed. A few pellets caught on the bodywork. Too far back.
“Just drive!” Joan shouted, scared. “Anywhere!”
Cam drove. Taking corners. Right. Left. Right. He hit the freeway. Heading south. Too fast. Too hot. Easy target. Alex didn’t care. A road sign flew past. ENTERING CHARLESTON.
“Speed up, Cam! They’re coming.”
Chapter 23
Standing at the point where two rivers met, Alex turned back to the group.
“What the hell happened?”
Cam’s flat drawl bounced off the paint as he crouched down beside the car.
“Tire’s flat.”
Cam pulled a nail out of the rubber, holding it up for everyone to see.
“I don’t mean the tire,” Alex told him. “I mean all that.”
He waved his arms around. They stood in a parking lot outside an abandoned union office, layers of bridges and freeways crisscrossed over their heads.
“How did we get in the middle of this place, I mean? Charleston, right? This is exactly where we don’t want to be.”
Joan leaned against the car, warming her face in the fading sun. Timmy had the map spread across the hood, his finger moving backward up from the city into Romance.
“Man, I think we must have hit 77. Don’t know how we did it, too much happening at once. But we’re here now.”
“So how do we get out?” Alex looked around as he asked the question.
Every road out of the city was a freeway. If the agents knew where they were, they could float their drone over Charleston and see them in a second.
“Did you hear what that guy said about the CIA?” Cam slipped the jack under the car as he talked.
“I know, right?” Timmy broke away from the map. “You reckon that’s right?”
“Could be. CIA mean business, in my experience.”
“Yeah, man, but I thought they were, like, international stuff. We’re pretty domestic right now.”
“Rules, my friend, you think this is a time for rules?”
Alex walked across to the car and slapped his hand down on the hood.
“Hey. You two. Focus. How are we going to get out of this city if they’re watching us?”
“Ain’t gonna matter if we’ve only got three wheels,” Cam told him. “Grab the spare, would ya?”
Furious with worry, determined not to show it, Alex helped. The spare was leaning up against the rear bumper, ready to go.
“Quiet.”
Joan shut down the conversation. Alex stopped, the tire still in his hands.
“Listen,” she said. “Just listen.”
Alex turned an ear upward. It didn’t take long. That wretched mechanical shriek, the shrill noise from up among the clouds. The drone, circling above.
“Oh my God,” Timmy whispered. “Have they spotted us?”
Cam’s hands moved faster. He pulled the wheel from Alex and lifted it into place. He paused a moment to look up at the sky.
“Too far away by my reckoning. But it’s getting close.”
“But where?”
Eyes already scanning the parking lot, Alex saw it first. The stretch of road which sat beneath the bridge.
“There,” he shouted, “get the wheel changed and go there.”
He opened the driver’s door and reached inside.
“Us? What are you going to do?” Joan watched Alex, eyes trying to take him apart.
“I’ve got a plan.” He pulled the Savage from the rear seat and filled his coat pocket with ammo. “Just get the car under cover.”
The wheels hit the ground as Cam loosened the jack. Alex checked the rifle and threw the car keys to Cam.
“They’re coming in from the same direction,” he told them. “I’m going to give them something to think about.”
* * *
As he ran, Alex heard the car start. The bridge was decent cover. Ten feet of thick concrete above, they’d be invisible to any eyes in the sky. But there was nothing stopping the CIA men from looking themselves.
Alex ran back up the exit from the freeway, on to the bridge and across the first four lanes. He hurdled the dividers, sprinted across the remaining lanes and started down the off-ramp.
He heard the drone. Same direction as the setting sun.
Better run fast. Keeping the big river to his left, putting the small river behind him, the rifle beating against his shoulder, he ran farther into Charleston.
This was an industrial area, he realized. A few residential streets on the blocks to his right, but this place reeked of the trade wars. Abandoned buildings and warehouses. Plenty of places to hide.
They would be here soon. Hell, they were already here.
Their eyes floated above, watching everything. They must have been close by when they got the call. They must have known where Alex and his friends would end up.
Alex stopped at the corner of a block, hid himself behind a building, and looked back. He could see the bridge from here. If he strained his ears, he was sure he could hear the Cadillac. He could definitely hear the drone.
Even from this distance, the sound was a cruel reminder. Already, he’d been near these men. If he’d been braver, if he’d been a better planner, if he’d been a better shot, if he’d been able to look down the barrel of a gun without haunting thoughts overriding his entire body, he might have been able to end the chase early. Shoot them dead, get away.
Was that even justice, though? The howl of the drone didn’t sound like justice. It didn’t sound welcoming. It didn’t sound like a safe and secure place or a promising future for Alex and his friends. It sounded like regret and remorse, like a distant threat hurtling closer and closer to an inevitable showdown every single day.
He ran past a bank and a Goodwill, all these thoughts blowing through his mind like a tornado through a trailer park, past one warehouse and another. Everything abandoned. White crosses on every door, even the industrial ones. But no bodies. Weird.
In every other town, bodies littered the streets. The dead sat at the wheels of their car, in their doorways.
Not here.
The streets were clean. Too clean.
Alex saw a parking lot at the foot of a tall building. He ran toward it.
The parking lot was still crammed with cars. Decent models, German and imported. Older vehicles, too
. Alex had an idea. He looked around, picked a car. A crapped-out sedan. Could be a Ford. Cheap and cheerful. Old as hell. Before safety regulations were a thing. Perfect.
Arriving at the Ford, he found the fuel cap. Fastened shut. He slammed the buttstock of the rifle into the side of the car and the cap came loose. He ripped it off.
He couldn’t shoot the car. He knew that much. Pure movie magic. Didn’t do anything. But there was gas inside. Lovely, flammable gas. Smashing one of the rear windows, he opened the door. With his knife, he shredded the cheap cloth on the backseat and ripped it from the fitting.
Cloth in hand, Alex dripped it carefully into the fuel tank as far as he could, until he was holding only a tiny square of the patterned grey fabric between his fingernails. Let it soak for a second. Then he pulled.
The fabric, all four feet of it, slithered out of the tank, dripping with gas. He laid it along the ground, leaving a foot of cloth still inside the tank.
Fire. He needed fire. Didn’t have the matches. No lighter. Difficult.
But Alex didn’t need a proper fire, he realized, only a spark. Just one spark.
The sound of the Cadillac on the bridge stopped. They were out of the car, looking around.
He had to act fast.
The knife. Rub a stone against a knife. Timmy had said something about that. It had to be a specific type of stone. But which type? Alex racked his brain, screwed up his eyes, and tried to remember. Nothing. Whatever.
Laying down the rifle and the knife, Alex ran around the car park. Grab as many stones as possible in thirty seconds, he told himself, anything that looks like a stone.
Not much to choose from. Lucky it’s such a beaten-up area, he thought.
Running back to the Ford, he crouched beside the gas-soaked rag, took out his knife and began scraping the different rocks along the back of the blade.
Three quick scrapes. Nothing.
Next rock. Same scrapes. Three. Nothing.
Running out of time. The agents must be close.
Another rock. Nothing. Another rock. Nothing.
Another rock. Sparks. Tiny ones.
Alex took a better grip on the stone, holding the knife steady. He scraped it. Short, sharp stabs. Sparks. One caught. Success.
