Families First: A Post Apocalyptic Next-World Series Volume 4 Hard Roads

by Lance K Ewing

  Laying him down on the ground with the others, Cory checked Drake’s breathing and found it shallow but steady.

  There was blood on his left arm and right upper thigh, and a growing lump on the back of his head.

  “What happened?” he asked a still distressed and coughing Whitney.

  “I saw him fall from the tree, and I heard shots before that. He didn’t even try to land on his feet. Is he dead?” she asked, crying softly.

  “No, sweetie. He’s breathing, but I’m not sure how badly he’s hurt.”

  Cory radioed the man watching the four-wheelers.

  “Take all of the keys out and ride one straight up the road to the MacDonalds’ place.”

  “You want me to leave the bikes?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Ride straight up here as fast as you can.”

  Mac got Sarah on the radio and told her he had a man from our side needing help.

  “We will have him at the hospital in 30-40 minutes, if all goes well,” he added.

  Cory had a flashback of this same kind of scenario happening only a few short weeks ago with Jimmy.

  He wrapped the two bullet wounds with gauze and he secured them with duct tape. They didn’t appear to be life-threatening. They were not nearly as concerning as Jimmy’s had been.

  But the boy was unconscious after a near 15-foot fall and had hit his head on the way down.

  Mac called Cory’s former female officer, tasking her with helping to bring Drake down to the hospital as soon as transportation arrived.

  * * * *

  With her help, they rode back towards the hospital. Drake was slumped over the vehicle, now semi-conscious and groaning.

  Mac called for his megaphone man to repeat instructions to Ralph and his last security guy to come out and surrender.

  Five minutes went by…then ten…and finally fifteen. The smoke had cleared, and only traces of the tear gas reached those already on the ground.

  “Where’s Ralph?” asked Mac.

  “I don’t see him,” replied Cory, “but unless both he and his security guy died, the only thing I can guess is that they have masks.”

  “I thought about that,” said Mac, “but even then, they were in the middle of it.”

  “What’s that?” asked Cory, hearing an engine start 100 yards up the road.

  “I don’t know,” replied Mac, as Whitney chimed in.

  “It’s my grandfather’s four-wheeler. I think it’s at the end of the tunnel.”

  “What tunnel?” asked Mac.

  “The escape... Oh, I forgot to tell you about that, I guess.”

  “And your grandparents too!” he replied.

  “I’m guessing it goes from the house and dumps out up the road,” interjected Cory.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she replied. “Are you going to go after them?”

  “Nope. They’re gone and off this earth as far as I’m concerned,” stated Mac sternly. “We will deal with those before us and set the expectations from here on out.”

  Mac, with a mask of his own, did a quick sweep of the house, finding a door in the middle of the pantry open. A staircase led underground. He emerged and nodded to Cory that the house was clear.

  The children had found their way back to the main house, and most of the adults were now sitting up.

  Mac laid out the ground rules, asking if any of them felt like they were in charge. When no one raised their hand, he continued.

  “I don’t know what you were all up to before, but I’m guessing you were just typical moms and dads. Whatever it is you were doing each day while the children were outside is your business, but now is your time if you need to head out on your own. Ralph is gone once again, and if you see him, let him know that if I or anyone from our Valley sees him again, he will be shot on sight. No questions or warnings.

  “As for the rest of you, here is our offer. If you take it, the offer is absolute, with no revisions allowed. If you do not, you are on your own. Either way, we expect you to leave this property in the next half hour, never to return to it or any part of the Valley below. Any breach of this agreement will result in punishment that you don’t want to deal with, I can assure you. As for your children, they didn’t ask for this to happen. We are giving you a new start, like a poor family winning the lottery in the last world. Raise them right and treat them well.”

  He went over the official rules, with a review of the items from both the Ranch and West properties heading up now on a trailer truck with enough gunny sacks to transport the generous offer. There was also a detailed map to the property they would soon call home. He distributed their weapons with all the ammo in a separate bag. He gave those bags to the moms.

  “No loading the rifles until you are at least a mile up the road,” called out Cory. “Then, you will need every round you can spare for hunting game.”

  A few were grateful, and most were just along for the ride. Only a handful refused to leave, but they became convinced when Mac repeated his earlier statements about Ralph.

  Slowly they packed up their meager belongings and headed up into the mountains towards the place they would call home.

  “I hope they find salvation up there. I really do,” said Mac.

  “Me too,” replied Cory. “Me too.”

  “All clear,” called Mac over the radio, “and great job, everyone!”

  He left a few of his crew on cleanup before heading to the hospital to check up on Drake.

  Each window in the MacDonald house was opened fully, and it would take 12 hours to open-air it before it would be inhabitable.

  It was going to need a cleanout and disinfecting over the next couple of days, and the broken window would be replaced.

  Three men were tasked with guarding the property against anyone trying to head back to this familiar place.

  * * * *

  Drake was semi-conscious as they pulled into the West hospital parking lot. He mumbled incoherently.

  Dr. Melton called out instructions to the other doctors rushing him back into the same room both John and Jimmy had stayed in not long ago.

  “He has two gunshot wounds—left elbow and right upper thigh, as well as a head contusion,” she called out. “Everyone else outside,” she added, clearing the lobby of anyone not officially on duty.

  * * * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  South of Pueblo, Colorado

  Lonnie pulled the lead truck off the highway for a quick meeting.

  “Take a look at the map,” he called over the radio.

  Jake, Vlad and I all pulled out ours.

  “Look just up and to the west but still south of Pueblo. Do you see it?” asked Lonnie.

  “The airpark?” I asked. “Simonson?”

  “Yes, that’s it. If we follow Burnt Mill Road south to Little Burnt Mill Road north, it will put us right at the airpark,” continued Lonnie.

  “What do you bet there’s a burned-out mill somewhere on the way?” I joked.

  “It’s a little off the beaten path,” Lonnie continued, “but still heading in our general direction, and we might just get lucky and get another good night’s sleep. It looks like about an hour or two out, and we still have a day to kill anyway. All in?”

  “Sounds good.” “Yes, sir.” “Sure!” came from all with radios.

  Lonnie’s wife kept a close eye on the map, not wanting to miss the first turnoff. “It used to be so easy before, and I guess we got spoiled,” she remarked.

  “What do you mean?” he asked his wife.

  “Maps and directions,” she replied. “I remember using one of these before vehicle navigation and cell phones. We got spoiled with the map narrator calling out the next turn—‘Take a left at Burnt Mill Road in one mile. Turn left in 1,000 feet…200 feet. Oh, you missed it! No worries. Make a U-turn’ it would scream obnoxiously until the driver finally complied or got far enough away to hear the familiar chant, ‘Re-routing…Re-routing.’ Now it’s old school again, and
we have no choice but to go slow and look for the street signs that were always there.”

  “Yeah, we were spoiled all right,” Lonnie agreed, laughing at the absurd accuracy of her statement. “A tire change or a tow was only a phone call away. Now the calendar has been dialed back, whether we like it or not, and we are back to working hard with our own hands, and bartering.”

  “There,” she pointed up ahead. “That’s the turn.”

  “Simonson Field—6 miles,” the sign read.

  “Let’s take this slow,” called Lonnie over the radio. “We’ve got six miles to the airpark. We will stop far enough away to need our binoculars for a perimeter check before deciding if it is a viable option.”

  “I wouldn’t mind another night like that last airpark,” Jake commented.

  “Yeah, me neither,” I agreed. “Worst case, we head up to Pueblo State Park right here,” I said, as I pointed to the map. “It’s only about another 20 miles north beyond the airpark.”

  “It’s a no!” called out Lonnie, stopping on a large bluff overlooking the airpark that was nearly three miles away.

  “Back up 50 yards, if you can,” he called out, not wanting to be seen.

  Twenty yards was the best he could get. One of the trailers nearly jackknifed, but it was enough for all vehicles to get clear of the bluff top.

  He called a quick meeting with a few of us, heading on foot to the top for a view.

  My leg was aching again, and I asked Jake to report for Vlad and me. “Sure thing, buddy,” he replied.

  I spent a few minutes talking to Joy and our boys. They were taking turns petting Mini.

  “Can I get out and pet my Bingy?” asked Hendrix. He was referring to his dog Ringo, who was much too big to be riding around in a vehicle.

  “He’s on the back trailer with Steve and Jim,” I said, “and I’m sure he’s getting plenty of pets.”

  * * * *

  Ten minutes later the men were back.

  “It’s a military base now, as far as I can tell,” said Jake, “and I, for one, don’t want to push our luck by introducing ourselves.”

  “Agreed here,” I chimed in. The others nodded in agreement.

  “We’ve got two ways around,” interjected Lonnie, “to make it up to the State Park. It’s not far from Pueblo and will be occupied for sure, but it’s a big park and lake, according to the map. The first way is back to I-25 for a shot north and just outside the city. The second is winding up on back roads and hoping there are a few not on the map.”

  “What does that mean?” asked his wife.

  “It means,” he continued, “that according to my map, which is about four years old, there are no official roads connecting from here to the lake. There are a few that come close, so I’m hoping we can find some off the map to make it there safely. Whoever wants to try the backroads, raise your hand.”

  I raised my hand, along with most everyone else.

  “Okay, who wants to go up the Interstate…following close behind the two groups we are trying to avoid?”

  The few hands that went up immediately were now lowered with the last part of his statement.

  “That does it, then,” said Lonnie.

  “It was the backroads that got us this far,” I said, “and more than halfway through our journey. I thought it might be easier following the groups straight up the center of Colorado, but I’m convinced now that the back way is our only chance.”

  “Let’s take it slow,” said Mike, “and call it out if there is any trouble or if you see a road off the map heading in the right direction.”

  * * * *

  It took nearly 20 minutes to get the vehicles and trailers turned around. Mike and Jake had to take the driving position on a couple of vehicles.

  I was looking forward to a break and hoped we could take a dip in the lake when we got there.

  Weaving across the countryside, we kept our eyes open. I half expected some helicopters or upset farmers to tell us we were on their property, but none came.

  For the next hour, we saw no one. No vehicles, caravans, or even a single person walking.

  “Now this is how I like to travel,” I told Jake. Vlad agreed.

  “Last time it was this easy, I got a deer in my lap,” Vlad said, laughing.

  “Four miles from the lake,” called out Lonnie. “We will hold up for observation when we get close.”

  Standing mostly on my good leg, I looked over the cab of the lead truck, scanning the horizon with my binoculars.

  “It’s a party,” I called out on the radio.

  After not seeing a single person for hours, I felt like I was watching Zombie Apocalypse. There were people, lots of them, on the east side but thinning out as I looked farther west.

  “They came from Pueblo to the east and only reached as far west around the lake as they had to, so they could have their own fishing spot,” I said to Jake and Vlad.

  Most people I observed walked slowly and looked sick. Was it the water? I thought, figuring many people would not have purifiers. Maybe they were surrounded by fish but couldn’t catch any?

  They would eventually need more than water and fish, but they should not be looking this bad, I thought—not yet.

  “Keep watch,” Lonnie called, as people now walked near the slow-moving caravan.

  One man, in his mid-twenties and sporting a nice backpack with a fishing pole sticking out the top, called out to me.

  “Hey, mister, can you spare something to eat?”

  “You look like you’re doing all right,” I called back, pointing at his pack.

  “What? Oh, you mean my fishing pole?”

  “Yep, that’s the one,” I said. “Now go catch some fish!”

  I was trying not to sound like a jerk, but when a guy is walking around with a fishing pole and asking for food, I wasn’t getting it.

  He was running now alongside the truck at about five miles per hour.

  Jake and Vlad had him covered, but I didn’t find him a threat.

  “I want to fish, mister; we all do,” he called out, keeping pace, “but they’re not taking any paper money.”

  “Who’s not?” I asked.

  “The owners of the lake, I mean.”

  His pace was starting to slow, and I guessed he might not have eaten in a while.

  “Lonnie, hold up for a minute,” I called out.

  I shouldn’t have stopped or even engaged him in the first place, I thought, but something is off here.

  Jake and Vlad came over with a few ladies and Mike.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Mike, hoping it would be something interesting. He was getting bored again.

  “I was just talking to...”

  “Uh, Mitchell, I mean Mitch. Everyone calls me that.”

  “Okay, Mitch, you were starting to tell me why you’re not fishing for yourself with your very own fishing pole on a lake owned by the State of Colorado. I’m sure the higher-ups are not going to fine you if you don’t have a license.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s not that. They just won’t let us fish at all.”

  “Who are they?” asked Mike.

  “The Gradlen brothers,” Mitch said.

  “Who?” asked Mike again.

  “The Gradlen brothers. There are four of them, and they’re a big deal in Pueblo…well, at least they used to be before…well, you know. They’re all proud bachelors except for the youngest. He’s married with a little girl and is the only one with any sense, as far as I’m concerned.” He made this last statement quietly, looking around.

  “So, they think they own the whole lake?” asked Mike.

  “Yes, sir. That’s about the truth of it.”

  “And you have to pay them off to use the lake, right?” I asked.

  “Yeah, kind of, but they won’t take any paper money,” replied Mitch.

  “What do they take?” asked Joy.

  “Well...I mean…well, ma’am, that’s just it. I mean…”

  “What do the
y take?” she asked again.

  “Women, ma’am. They take women in trade. Must have twenty or more already, as far as I can tell. And my girl over there,” pointing to a female sitting on the ground and motioning for her to come over, “is not going to be one of them. Not as long as I’m breathing.”