Pavement Ends: The Exodus

by Kurt Gepner

  "He locked up my wife? My daughters?" Hank asked with panic.

  Brody replied. "Not just them. He's got Salvador, TJ, Silas and Andrea too. None of the kids, though."

  "You go back," Hank sputted, "and tell Stew that I’m unconscious." All eyes turned with surprise upon Hank. "Tell him that we were attacked after we made our rendezvous. Tell him that I got hit with a shovel and knocked unconscious. My family fought off the attackers, no… Never mind. That won’t work. He’s too smart for that."

  Hank stood up. He shook and wobbled feebly. Marissa was at his side, holding him steady. He looked at Brody. "You’re going to show me how to ride that thing."

  "You can barely stand," Marissa reproved.

  "That’s all I need to do," he said.

  "Don’t be ridiculous, Hank," she said. "You are in no condition to do whatever you have planned."

  Matt pitched in with his wife. "She’s right, Hank"

  Hank shrugged off her hand and steadied himself. He took a deep breath. "I need medicine. You know better than me," he said looking her in the eye. "How frequently did people die from wounds before antibiotics?"

  Marissa lowered her eyes. "Often," she said.

  "It’s pretty obvious that I’m in bad shape," Hank said. "I’m already dead without antibiotics, so I’m risking nothing and have everything to gain." While he spoke, a small measure of his strength returned and he stood a margin taller. "This is something that I’m going to do, so I want to quit talking about it and get on with it."

  "Uncle Henry," Steven asked, looking up at the big man.

  "Yes?"

  "Can I ride the scooter when you’re done?" The boy asked with great hope sparkling in his eyes.

  Hank couldn’t resist a half grin and chuckle. "If I’m all right when I get done, we’ll talk Brody into letting you ride."

  "Okay," Steven said with a grin.

  PART SIX

  May The Best Man Win

  CHAPTER ONE

  He was a large load for the scooter, but it was rated to handle four-hundred pounds. Although it may not have been as responsive for him as it was for Brody, he was still astounded by its acceleration. It didn’t take long for Hank to grasp the principle of the vehicle as he raced up 192nd. With Brody’s directions, the Caravan wasn’t difficult to find and he caught up with them in about twenty minutes.

  Rounding a blind corner to the left, Hank nearly rammed into the back of the trailer at the end of the Caravan. He swerved wide and just avoided running down one of the children. An elderly Hispanic woman yelped and jumped out of his way as he arced in toward the Duck Truck. From the corner of his eye, he sensed a motion on top of the U-haul, but he remained focused on the front of the Caravan.

  Stew was there, leaning his back against the hood and talking to a Hispanic man. The Hispanic man saw Hank and his eyes flared wide. He grabbed for the holstered pistol at his side. Stew turned to see what had startled the man. The following instants tumbled past in a slow motion blur.

  Hank slammed into the other man just after his left arm plowed across Stewart’s throat. Stewart was thrown more than eight feet while the smaller man crumpled under Hanks mass and inertia. Rolling to his back, Hank jerked Whisper free of its holster and took a bead on the man who stood atop the U-haul. Whisper’s deafening boom filled the air. The man spun sideways, dropped the rifle and disappeared from sight.

  Hank pumped another shell into the chamber and rolled to his side. The Hispanic man had got to his hands and knees and found the pistol. Pressing the barrel of his shotgun against the man’s jaw, Hank said, "Drop it." Gingerly, the man set the pistol down. Hank fetched it and got to his feet.

  Choking, sputtering and wheezing, Stewart also got to his feet. He saw Hank storming toward him and froze with terror. Hank doubled up his fist and reached back like a quarterback throwing a Hail Mary. When his knuckles smashed into Stewart’s nose, an audible crunch was heard to the back of the Caravan. Stewart found himself flat on his back, with blood gushing from his nostrils.

  "I ought to kill you, Stew," Hank said as he viciously shoved Whisper’s barrel hard against Stewart’s forehead.

  "Please," Stewart begged with blood washing down his face. "Don’t kill me!" Stewart clasped his hands together and tears welled in his eyes. "Please, Hank, don’t kill me!"

  "Tell me where they are, and I let you live." Hank replied with Death's throaty voice.

  Stew didn't hesitate. "About a mile back, locked in a refrigerator truck." His words came fast, filled with panic. "It's just wired shut. I didn't lock it!"

  "Get running, Stew. Now!" Hank planted his steel toed boot in Stewart’s ribs for emphasis. Stewart scrambled to his feet. Hank set another kick his direction and sent the gawky man stumbling down the road. "Don’t ever let me see you or your friends again, Stew!" Hank called after him. "Never again!"

  A wave of nausea splashed over Hank. He staggered against the hood of the Duck Truck and his vision began to fade. He thought he heard a cheer and applause. Stewart’s three companions were pushed and shoved after their fallen leader as Hank lowered himself to the ground.

  His eyes rolled in his head, but he caught a glimpse of the Hispanic man who had been talking with Stewart. The man was young and bold and looked as if he might try to take advantage of Hank’s weakened condition. Hank lifted Whisper and feebly pointed at the man. "Take your chances." He didn’t waste any time considering his odds. He turned and ran away in the direction that Stewart had run.

  He had no more reserves. If the man had a change of heart and decided to return, Hank could not have lifted Whisper one more time. Bertel was suddenly beside him. "You have to find them..." He groaned.

  "Tom is already on his way," the German woman answered. Hank’s consciousness wilted and the aging woman vanished from his sight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Well, a lot of people would argue that commerce is why laws are made." Hank recognized the voice, but couldn’t place it.

  "Really," another familiar voice spoke, full of incredulity. "You think that speed limits help commerce? They reduce the number of accidents each year, which means fewer car parts are sold."

  The first voice spoke again. It was Evie. "Were sold," she corrected. "There’s not a lot of car accidents today."

  "Whatever. You get my point," it was Theresa.

  "Yeah, but you’re not looking at the big picture," Evie said.

  "What’s that?" Theresa asked.

  "Whenever an accident stopped traffic, truck loads of merchandise weren’t getting to their destinations on time, people were missing appointments, being late for work and so on," Evie said. "The economic impact could be in the millions, while those cars, even if they were totaled, would have been worth, what… fifty, sixty grand?"

  Hank tried to swallow, but his throat was parched. "Mmmng," he managed to say. He opened his eyes and saw the orange flickers of firelight.

  "Hey," Theresa said. "Superman’s awake." The two women came to his side.

  "Wha’ time?" Hank mumbled.

  "It’s the middle of the night," Evie said as she propped his head up.

  Theresa shoved a thermometer in his mouth and said, "I know you’re thirsty. I’ll give you something to drink in a few minutes." Evie lit a flashlight so Theresa could use Silas’ watch to take Hank’s pulse. Then she took his blood pressure. She checked his temperature. "It’s gone down a lot," she said. Then with a small laugh, she said, "It’s down to one-hundred and two."

  She gave him water and pills to swallow. His throat hurt and he clutched at it. "Yeah," Theresa said. "I was afraid of that. We had to use some automotive tubing to get the pills down your throat. Just stuck it in the end and slid it right down. Used a cable from one of those bicycles to pop it out in your stomach. You probably got a few scratches."

  Hank’s expression was pained. "A few?" He croaked indignantly. "I’d rather have strep throat!"

  Theresa ignored his comment. "Normally, in your condition, I would have admini
stered your antibiotics by I-V. But we don’t have any I-V’s, do we?" She shrugged. "Had to get the medicine in you somehow…"

  "Thanks," Hank rasped with an exaggerated swallow. "You sound better," he observed.

  "Oh, I am." She replied with a chipper lilt. "I haven’t been this rested in a few years. I have people around who are willing to help out. My kids are getting plenty of activity and being well cared for. No commuting, or errands, or soccer practice to coordinate. I’m thinking that we should have apocalypses more often, just to give working girls a break."

  The mention of her children brought to mind his niece and nephew. "We’ve got to get moving," Hank said and bolted upright. The throbbing in his skull made him wince. "We’ve got to get to Matt and Marissa!"

  "Relax," Evie said and pushed him back down. "We got to them just before sunset, yesterday. They’re fine."

  "Yesterday?!?" Hank bolted back upright.

  "And," Theresa added, while again pushing him down, "You did a great job setting your brother’s arm. You should have been a nurse."

  "On top of that," Evie added, "we stopped by the boutique along the way. Now we’ve got enough dog food to feed my furry babies for a few months."

  "It didn’t burn down?" Hank asked.

  "Not too badly," Evie said under a somber cloud. "The dogs that hadn’t been picked up by their owners didn’t make it. But not because of fire."

  Hank grimaced. "They were eaten, weren’t they?"

  Evie hung her head. "It looks that way." Her anger flared. "How stupid can people be?" She demanded of no one in particular. "They didn’t touch the dog food, even though it’s enriched with vitamins and minerals. Instead they killed the dogs and cooked them like pigs over a fire."

  "I’m not surprised," Hank said matter-of-factly. Changing the subject, he asked, "What happened after I left?"

  Evie answered him. "You left a psychopath in charge of the Caravan!"

  "I didn’t leave him in charge," Hank said defensively. "Why would I do that? I asked him to make sure you found the meadow, if anything happen to me. I told him that you would handle everything. You were in charge, Evie."

  Evie and Theresa exchanged looks. "What a snake!" Evie exclaimed. "I told you I didn’t trust him! What a lying, low-life, despicable… Dirty rat-bastard!"

  After launching into tirade of expletives and self-deprecation, Evie regained her composure and began to recount the events following Hank’s departure from the Caravan. "We’ve cobbled together a pretty interesting story," she said. "From what Enrique has told us…."

  "Enrique," Hank frowned. "Who’s that?"

  "That is the man you shot in the middle of your Hollywood gunfight," she told him. "Theresa pulled four pieces of buckshot out of his shoulder. But he’s fine, now."

  "He’s fine?" Hank asked. "He’s here?"

  "Yes," she confirmed.

  Hank’s frown deepened. "Send him packing!"

  "No, Hank." Evie said adamantly.

  Hank looked at his wife as if spiders were climbing out of her ears. "Why not?"

  "Because, Hank, Enrique and his family are victims of Stew’s duplicity as much as we are."

  "His family?" Hank asked.

  "Yes, Hank," she verified. "And if you listen to the story, you’ll find out more answers."

  "Fine!" He frumped. "But use smaller words. Duplicity is more than I can chew, right now."

  "You like that?" Evie nearly crowed. "It just popped into my head with a flash."

  "Great," Hank said cynically. "Now you’ve got a brain tumor." He poked fun at her, trying to diffuse his own anger and frustration. They knew one another well enough to know that they were teetering on the edge of a cruel argument. Their tones, the tension in their faces and inflections had communicated more than any words ever could. Hank was laser focused on the subject of his family’s welfare and Evie was not going to be bossed or bullied into yielding her position.

  She shook her fist at her husband. "I’ll give you a tumor," she quipped. Evie played along with him.

  "No tumors!" Theresa commanded with a comical shake of her finger. "I don’t do tumors."

  Hank laughed and then a somber expression fell upon his face. Evie asked, "What is it?" He became even more sad.

  "I know the odds are slim, but…," He was reluctant to ask.

  Evie took his hand in hers and shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes, because she knew what he was afraid to ask. "I’m sorry, Hank. After you ran off Stewart, I even sent Brody to ride over to his apartment and back to our house. That fat man, Brian, is doing fine. But, there’s no sign of Kyle, or Izzy."

  Hank felt as if he had just identified the bodies in the city morgue. After all that he had done…, saving his brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew…, after bringing together more than thirty people: family, friends, neighbors and strangers. After doing his best, whether right or wrong, his son and granddaughter were dead.

  It was more than he could bear. He fell into Evie’s lap and she held him. Hot tears pressed against his eyes and he tried to swallow them down. His body shook with grief and Evie did her best to comfort her husband. A keening rose in his throat as his tears streamed down his cheeks. Then Hank could no longer hold back. He sobbed into his wife. Evie held him and sobbed with him. They didn’t notice when Theresa left them. They didn’t notice when the fire faded into embers. For a long time, they held each other and cried, until together, they fell into an exhausted sleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The cathartic release of the night before left Hank less burdened, but no less fatigued. Letting go of his son and granddaughter was like letting a world of worry drop from his shoulders. But another world of distress was awaiting him.

  In the morning, as birds announced the arrival of dawn, Evie summarized the events that had transpired in Hank’s absence. He groaned remorsefully as her story escalated. In conclusion she told him that the Escobar’s had been indentured to Stewart, "by way of a quasi-legal immigration that that ‘slime-ball’ orchestrated with his corporate authority."

  In return for getting some twenty-odd members of Enrique’s family and friends into this country, the Escobar family had indefinitely indebted themselves to Stewart. He had been on his way to cash in on that debt, when he stumbled upon the Caravan. And with Hank out of the way, it was only a matter of taking a minor detour to collect.

  As Stew suspected, the Escobar household was without power at the time of the event. Being one of the few homes to avoid destruction, he had rightly figured that they would be gathered there for protection. According to Enrique, they made a deal to be released from all of their debt after one year, so long as the Escobar’s did everything Stewart said.

  During his debriefing, Theresa came to check on her patient and contribute to the telling. Hank absorbed the details attentively. After being apprised of their adventures, he said to his wife, "Good bluff, by the way."

  "I figured you would catch that, given I am always reminding you of the combination," she said with a smile. "I had no idea what you would do, of course," Evie added flippantly. "But I knew you’d do something."

  "Well, it all worked out," he said. "That’s what matters."

  "If you weren’t already so beat up," Evie said. "I’d punch you for being so cliché."

  "Since we’re on the topic," Hank turned to Theresa, "what’s my prognosis, Doc? When will I be on my feet?"

  "Foot," Theresa said.

  "What?" Hank asked, cocking his head to the side.

  "I had to amputate your leg," she said bluntly.

  "WHAT?!?" Hank jerked upright and threw the blanket off his legs. They were both intact. He shook his head and gave Theresa a dirty look. "That wasn’t funny."

  Theresa smirked. "It kinda was," she disagreed. "But unless you want me to be serious, you’ll do exactly as I prescribe."

  "Okay... You got my attention. What’s your prescription?" He asked with thick sarcasm.

  Her expression lost its humor as she gave
him a level stare. "You really are lucky, Hank. Your wounds were mostly superficial and you responded very well to the antibiotics." Being somewhat cowed, Hank nodded his comprehension of the alternatives. "I’d like you to stay off your feet, drink plenty of water and actually rest for a couple of days," Theresa told him. "And, of course, take all of your medicine, on time, for the next ten days."

  "I can do that," Hank said. "Anything else?"

  "If you do those things," she said, "I’ll take your stitches out, in a week and you’ll be fine."

  "What about food?" Hank asked wryly. "Can I eat?"

  Theresa furrowed her brow. "You can eat whatever you like…"

  "So…," he said and huffed on his fingernails. "What’s a Hollywood action hero got to do for a sandwich?" He asked while buffing his nails on his shirt.

  After Hank scrubbed his face and hands and got dressed in a fresh set of clothes, he sat in the kitchen with Evie while she pampered him with cheese, bread, sausages and wine: spoils of Marissa’s find. Everyone thought that Hank deserved some good food as a reward and he was too feeble and hungry to decline it. While she indulged her husband, Evie demurely approached the subject of their Exodus. "You know, Hank, I’ve been thinking about this plan of yours…," she paused to see that his attention was riveted. "And with all that’s happened, I’m afraid to push our luck."

  After taking a moment to appreciate another sip of wine, Hank asked, "What did you have in mind, Evie?"

  "Well," she drew out the word in a way that told him that he wouldn’t like what she had to say. "It’s not too late to head the back way through the residential areas of Camas and all together avoid the commercial areas." When she saw that Hank was considering her proposal, she continued reinforcing her foundation. "If what you said is true, about people heading for the river…" She could see his wheels turning as she spoke. He was almost convinced. Time to seal the deal. "Then we’re going to have more and more problems the longer we stay on this road. In other words, if all those desperate people are flocking to the river, shouldn’t we be flocking away from it?"