Homefront: The Voice of Freedom
Page 8
He prayed he wouldn’t run into policemen who might shoot him for being out past curfew. Worse than that would be to run into any of the roving gangs of “outlaws” he’d heard about. As it was the middle of the night, the odds were in his favor.
It was deathly quiet and very, very dark. Only the rumble of the Spitfire’s engine broke the silence. The bike’s headlight was the only illumination aside from the moon and stars.
The night air was chilly. Walker wore a brown leather bomber jacket, gloves, a scarf around his neck and lower face, and sunglasses. Goggles would have been better than the sunglasses, which made driving at night more difficult. He’d left a pair in his garage without thinking.
When he got to Glendale, he turned east on Highway 134. Up ahead a bonfire raged on the side of the road. People huddled around it. Walker debated whether he should find an alternate route or take his chances and go on. He paused and idled for a moment as he dug into the backpack for his binoculars. Raising them to his eyes, he determined the folks around the fire appeared harmless. They were all middle-aged men, probably homeless, simply trying to keep warm. Walker put the binoculars away and rode forward. There was a clear path in the highway, allowing him to increase his speed. As he drove past the bonfire, the men shouted at him, pointing, amazed to see a vehicle that worked. They wanted him to stop but Walker kept going. No time to chitchat. Besides, they might not be as friendly as they looked.
As he reached Pasadena, the highway became Interstate-210. Many more deserted cars and trucks scattered the road, creating obstacles that slowed him down. It took nearly three hours to get to Arcadia, and by that time the sun was rising.
Nature called, so Walker risked stopping to take a leak. It didn’t really matter where he halted; the web of cars on the highway provided plenty of privacy. He parked beside a van, stood in between it and another car, and did his business.
But just as he was zipping up, a gunshot cracked nearby. Walker flinched as he felt the heat of the round hit the side of the van near his head.
The road wasn’t so private after all.
Walker ducked and rushed to his bike. Another shot shattered a window on the van. He jumped on, turned the key, and slammed his boot on the kick-start.
The cycle didn’t start. The engine coughed as if it had emphysema.
Walker cursed and looked behind him. He made out three figures running toward him. One of them whooped and hollered, as if they’d caught themselves breakfast.
He kicked the start again. This time the engine revved—but died again.
What the hell was wrong?
Another gunshot punctured one of the extra gas cans on the back of the bike. Precious fuel poured out as if a spigot was turned on.
Walker stomped the kick-start again, and it caught on the third try. He gunned it, and the Spitfire shot forward between the obstacles in his way. The pursuers shouted in anger. More gunfire. It was the first time in his life Walker had to run from men shooting at him.
He didn’t slow down until his hunters were mere specks in the distance. Steering more cautiously now, he was back to the excruciating thirty-mile-per-hour speed.
It was around Azusa that he stopped again to check out the damage to the gas can. He removed and shook it. It was empty so he tossed the can on the road and climbed back on the bike.
He figured he had less than a half tank. The other five-gallon can would help, but he doubted he could make it to the following day without filling up somewhere. The Spitfire got good gas mileage at higher speeds; the snail’s pace was killing him.
Walker studied his map for an alternate route. It wasn’t a detailed street map—it only displayed the major roads and highways. In the end he decided it was too risky to venture off the Interstate. There was no telling what the side streets were like and he wasn’t familiar with the territory.
He took a moment’s pause to eat a little breakfast. Walker had made a vow to exercise discipline and conserve his food and water. He took only a couple of handfuls of cereal, which left him hungrier than before he stopped. After one swig of water, he was ready to move on.
By mid-morning, Walker noticed more people walking along the highway, all headed east. There were groups of varying sizes consisting of men, women, and children. Some of the men carried rifles. Walker figured they were regular folks, just trying to get away from the horrors of the city. Many of them waved as he rode past. Walker waved back.
By noon Walker was in San Bernardino. The plan was to take I-210 as it curved to the south and merge onto I-10 toward Palm Springs. Once there, he’d take Route 62 up to Twentynine Palms and look for the Marine Corps training grounds at Camp Wilson. Walker was aware it was probably a desolate, empty hellhole in the desert, but there was a chance some military personnel might be present along with a little more law and order.
As Walker rode past Redlands, the labyrinth of abandoned cars on the highway diminished. There were still enough to keep him from increasing to a speed over forty, but the road wasn’t nearly as dense with derelicts. To his surprise, he encountered a group of three men and two women with a working Toyota, likely a model from the early 1990s. They had stopped to push a BMW out of the way so they could drive past it. Walker was amazed they’d managed to navigate through the network of dead automobiles this far.
He stopped to help them.
Together, the six of them tipped the BMW on its side and rolled it over. This provided enough space for the Toyota to get through.
“Much obliged,” one of the men said.
“You have any food?” a woman asked.
“I’m sorry,” Walker answered. He knew if he started sharing what little cereal he had with anyone on the road, it wouldn’t last through the next meal.
At Moreno Valley, Walker passed a makeshift roadside eatery run by Mexicans. They had erected a picnic umbrella and had a portable tamale cart. A big sign read: TAMALES—$10 EACH. A few walk-up customers sat at two picnic tables by the stand. Apparently the Mexicans were doing fair business.
The price was outrageous, but the thought of tamales made Walker’s mouth water. He hadn’t had hot food in a week. It was too tempting to pass up.
Rather than taking the chance of losing the motorcycle, Walker got off at the next exit, turned into a closed gas station, and rode around to the back. There was nothing there but a couple of junker cars without wheels and a lot of garbage. He stopped, cut the ignition, and chained the bike to the axle of one of the cars. He then walked to the feeder road and headed back the mile-and-a-half to the tamale stand.
There was a family of three at one of the picnic tables—a man, woman, and a boy who appeared to be around six. Two older Hispanic men sat at the other table. They were all chowing down on the food, which smelled delicious.
A Mexican couple manned the stand. The man greeted Walker in Spanish and seemed friendly enough. Walker ordered one tamale. It was small, but he was hungry; a hot tamale was manna from heaven. The couple also sold warm soda cans for five dollars each. Walker decided to splurge.
He approached the family of three and asked, “Mind if I join you?”
The patriarch replied, “Be our guest.”
Walker sat across from them, opened the soda can, and took a sip. Even warm, the cola was like nectar from the gods. The tamale was hot, fresh, and perfect. He took his time, savoring small bites so it would last as long as possible.
“Where you headed?” the man asked.
“I don’t really know,” Walker answered truthfully.
“I noticed you came from the east. Where’d you come from?”
“Oh, I—” He started to tell them he was traveling away from LA, but he didn’t want to reveal ownership of a motorcycle. “Uhm, I live right here in Moreno Valley. I was holding out spending any money all week, but finally the thought of a hot tamale got the best of me. So here I am.”
“Is it true about the gangs in this area?”
Walker wasn’t sure what to say. “Gangs?”
“Or worse,” the wife added.
Walker understood what she meant. “I haven’t seen any. They have motorcycles that run?”
The man took a sip of his own soda and answered, “More and more people are repairing their cars and trucks. It’s not that hard, especially on older models. It’s the newer computerized ones that are the problem.”
“I wonder how long it’s going to take to get the country back in order.”
The man shot Walker a look. “Are you crazy? The country will never be back in order. It won’t ever be the way it was, that’s for sure. The Norks really did a number on us.”
“We’re certain it was the Koreans?”
“Yeah. I have a buddy in Burbank—that’s where we’re from—who has a ham radio in his basement. The EMP didn’t affect it. He told me he heard a broadcast every now and then by someone with the Emergency Broadcast System. I don’t know how they’re able to transmit any messages because the entire radio network across the country is wiped out. But there must be transmitters here and there that somehow happened to be protected. They were in a shelter or something. Anyway, he said it was confirmed by Washington that the Koreans were responsible.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Walker said.
“There’s a rumor they’ve landed in Hawaii.”
“Really?”
The man shrugged. “It’s just people talking.”
Walker ate in silence for a few minutes. When the meager meal was finished, he asked, “Where are you folks going?”
“We’re gonna try and make it to Phoenix. Nancy has family there.” He indicated his wife.
“By the way, I’m Ben Walker.” He held out his hand. The man shook it and introduced themselves as the Pattersons. Walker glanced at the two Hispanic customers at the other table. They had finished their meals and were now smoking cigarettes, refusing to make eye contact with him or the other Caucasians. It wasn’t surprising. Race relations had deteriorated in the LA area over the last couple of decades due to anti-Immigration laws and hostile sentiment. Walker didn’t think it made much difference now. What was happening in America was going to seriously affect Mexico and Canada—not to mention the rest of the world. It was more important than ever for people to try and get along.
As Walker rose to clean up and throw away the trash, the sound of motorcycles attracted everyone’s attention. From the feeder road, coming from the east.
“Uh oh,” Mr. Patterson said.
Sure enough, it was a gang of seven rough-looking guys on Harleys. They were heavily tattooed, big and overweight, and carried automatic weapons.
Holy shit.
Everyone at the tamale stand froze.
The one leading the pack held up his arm to signal a turnoff. The seven bikes slowed and stopped in front of the tamale stand.
“What did I tell you?” Patterson whispered.
“Shhh,” Walker said.
The men were dirty and greasy—probably hadn’t bathed since before the EMP. Their rank odor permeated the area, even outdoors. The leader was missing an eye and didn’t wear a patch.
“What have we here?” he bellowed. “Tamales! Boys, we’re having lunch on me!” The men cheered and got off their bikes.
Walker glanced at the Mexican couple that ran the stand. They smiled nervously at the gang members.
One-Eye approached the stand while the others assumed positions. Two men watched the road in both directions. One guy with a badly pock-marked face stayed with the leader. The other three kept watch on the customers at the picnic tables.
“How many tamales you got in there, amigo?” the leader asked.
The proprietor opened the cart and counted. He answered in Spanish.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. Can you speak English like an American?”
The Mexican couldn’t.
Walker answered for him. “He said there were twenty-three left.”
One-Eye slowly turned toward Walker and gave him a long, hard stare. Walker thought it best to look away and sit quietly.
“Thank you, buddy. I guess you’re one of them immigrant-lovers, seein’ as how you know their language and everything.” He turned back to the couple. “We’ll take all the tamales and all your sodas. We’re mighty hungry.” The men murmured in agreement.
The owners grabbed plates and started piling on the food.
“Uh, we want those to go,” the leader said.
The Mexican understood that. He nodded quickly and pulled out brown paper bags while his wife wrapped the tamales. In a couple of minutes, the leader distributed the food to his men. Then the proprietor made the mistake of telling the biker how much it cost.
“What was that? I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
The Mexican grabbed a little notepad and pencil and scribbled “$310,” tore off the slip, and handed it to One-Eye, smiling broadly.
Walker winced as the other customers at the tables shared worried glances. The tension was palpable.
The leader turned to his gang and said, “Boys, we owe the man three hundred and ten dollars. Anyone got their credit card handy?”
The men grunted.
One-Eye turned back to the Mexicans, crumpled the “bill” in his fist, and dropped it. That was a cue for Pock-Face to draw his semi-automatic and point it at the Mexican couple. The woman shrieked and they immediately raised their hands. The owner shook his head and spoke in Spanish, pleading with the biker not to rob them.
“Hand over what cash you have,” One-Eye commanded. “At ten dollars a pop, I suspect you’ve made quite a killing.”
The little Patterson boy started to cry. His mother did her best to shield his eyes and keep him quiet.
The vendor continued to babble in Spanish. One-Eye turned to the fattest of the men watching the customers and jerked his head. The minion moved to the couple behind the stand and said, “Out of the way.” He pushed the couple to the side and dug into the box where they kept the cash.
The Mexican’s voice turned threatening as his wife attempted to stop him. She beseeched her husband to move back but he shrugged her off. Cursing at the bikers in Spanish, the man drew a revolver from underneath his loose jacket, pointed it at the fat man, and fired before anyone could react.
The fat man screamed as the round drilled through his shoulder blade, perforated his massive chest, and exited his breast with such speed and force that it also hit Pock-Face. Blood spurted over the tamale stand and money. Pock-Face flinched and reflexively fired his pistol into the air.
The Mexican swerved the revolver at One-Eye, but by then the rest of the gang had their weapons out.
Walker shouted, “Get down!” as he leapt for the ground. The Pattersons and the Hispanic customers followed suit just as a hail of bullets caught the tamale stand vendors, both man and wife. The barrage was deafening. Walker kept low, covering his ears and shutting his eyes in terror. It seemed as if the gunfire lasted for minutes.
Finally, there was silence, save for the moaning of the one man who was wounded. The fat man was flat on the ground, dead. The Mexican couple lay in a rapidly spreading pool of blood, their bodies dotted with holes from head to toe.
Walker remained where he was. His ears rang.
“The rest of you, get up!” the leader shouted.
Walker felt a boot kick him in the side. He looked up to see the remaining bikers pointing their weapons at the customers.
Oh God, this is it. I’m going to die.
“Stand up!”
They all did as they were told. The Patterson woman held her son against her leg and hip as he sobbed. Walker, Patterson, and the two Hispanics raised their hands.
One-Eye surveyed the small group and focused on the two Hispanics.
“Looks like we missed a couple of illegal
immigrants, boys,” he said. Without warning, he raised his pistol and shot both men in their heads—one, two. The Patterson woman screamed again. Her husband grabbed hold of his wife and son and hugged them close. Walker was too shocked to move.
Pock-Face now didn’t seem bothered by what was apparently a minor wound in the arm or shoulder. One Eye ordered, “Search ’em.” With bloody hands, Pock-Face went through the dead Hispanics’ pockets. He took what money was there and gave it to One-Eye.
The head biker then turned to the Pattersons and Walker.
“Empty your pockets, folks.”
They had no choice but to comply. Walker placed his wallet on the picnic table. He took a gamble by not handing over the Spitfire key, though. Hopefully the bikers wouldn’t notice it.
Patterson also handed over his cash. He gently prodded his wife to place her purse on the table.
“Empty the purse, lady.”
Patterson did it for her. It contained a few makeup supplies, a small photo album, and a billfold. One-Eye took all the wallets and removed the money. He knew the credit cards were useless. The man then turned to the Pattersons and focused on the woman. He reached out and touched her cheek. She trembled in fear.
“You’re kinda pretty, lady,” he said. “Why don’t you ditch this guy and come with us. I guarantee we’ll have a lot more fun.”
Patterson wisely didn’t say a word. His wife wouldn’t look at the biker.
“No? Suit yourself.” One-Eye then turned to the fat man’s motorcycle. “Guess we don’t need this anymore.” He aimed his pistol at it and shot both tires flat and blew a hole in the gas tank. He then turned to the Pattersons and Walker and said, “Oh, could you have used that? I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
The other men laughed. They didn’t seem to care about their fallen comrade.
One Eye glared at his victims. “You know we outta shoot all of you. Shouldn’t leave any witnesses, you understand. But seein’ how there’s no law and order anymore, I doubt anyone’s gonna come after us. So you have yourselves a nice day.”