Tex watched a moment. They were mobile, but the obstacles they were negotiating were not. If she concentrated her fire on the front corner of a stalled car just as one of the motorcycles swerved around it, they’d move into her field of fire. She steadied herself as she felt Bill swerve around a car, and as it came into view behind her, she targeted the right front headlight. When the lead cyclist was almost abreast of the front of the car, she fired a half-dozen shots in rapid succession just as the man swerved back toward the middle of the road—directly into her field of fire.
She’d been hoping for center-mass hits, but she was a bit high. A single round penetrated her attacker’s face shield, driving him backwards off the bike directly in the path of the remaining cyclist. The front wheel of the second man’s bike struck the body of his fallen comrade and the driver fought to maintain control—and lost. He slammed into a stalled car straight on at over fifty miles an hour and rocketed through the air to land some distance away, unmoving.
Tex holstered the Glock and clawed her way back to the front, squeezing between the seats just as they flew past the highway interchange. She glanced forward to see the road was suddenly free of stalled cars, and felt the SUV accelerate as Bill split his attention between the road ahead and quick glances in the rearview mirror.
“Damn! Remind me never to piss you off.”
“Lucky shot,” Tex said.
“Uh-oh! Let’s hope your luck holds.”
Tex turned back to the road, to see a big tractor trailer rig moving across the road from a side street a quarter mile ahead of them. Two cars pulling across the road in front of the big rig left no doubt it was a roadblock.
“Looks like they have radios!” Tex said as she felt the SUV decelerate rapidly, and another round punctured the windshield and several more struck the front of the car.
“And assault rifles! Get down!” Bill yelled as he stomped the brakes even harder and twisted the wheel, causing the SUV to swap ends, skidding backwards toward their attackers as Bill once again stomped the gas and smoke billowed off the screaming tires before they finally grabbed and the car shot back the way they’d come.
“Where the hell did you learn that?”
“Empty parking lots when I was a teenager,” Bill said. “There’s not a hell of a lot to do in small towns in the middle of the Maine woods.”
Tex twisted in her seat and stared back at the roadblock.
“More cycles?” Bill asked.
“Negative. Looks like a jacked-up four-wheel-drive pickup with a bed full of shooters,” Tex said.
Just then, steam or smoke billowed from under the hood, and Bill glanced down at the dash.
“The engine temp’s going straight up! They must have hit the radiator,” he said.
“What are we gonna do?”
“What can we do but ride and hope? How far ahead is that AT access we passed?”
“Three miles at least. Can we make it?”
“Who the hell knows. I should be able to stay ahead of these assholes through the obstacle course as long as we can keep moving. I’ve had a little experience now and that jacked-up truck has a high center of gravity. He can’t bob and weave too quickly.”
A round shattered the passenger-side mirror, and they both flinched.
“Should I return fire?”
Bill shook his head. “Not much point now. We don’t really have a fighting chance to escape unless we make the AT. If they do end up catching us, it might be better if we haven’t killed quite as many of them.”
Tex watched as Bill hurtled down the road, all caution gone now as the SUV caromed along the congested path, missing some cars by inches and glancing off others. She twisted in her seat and stared back.
“You’re opening up a lead, a pretty good one.”
Bill nodded, then frowned as horrible sounds started coming from under the hood. He glanced down at the instrument panel again.
“We’re red-lined on the engine temp and the oil pressure isn’t looking too great either. Say a little prayer this’ll all hold together long enough to make Turner Lane. Maybe if we can build up a big enough lead, we can be out of sight when we make the turn. What’s the road look like there, you remember?”
Tex jerked out the map and pulled it open. “Mostly straight and open, but there is a slight curve. It’s not much, but we might be out of their sight a couple of minutes. The only problem is when they round that curve, the road runs straight for a long way. If they don’t see us, it’ll be obvious we turned off somewhere and Turner Lane is the only option.”
“Let’s just hope they aren’t as smart as you,” Bill said.
Tex twisted back to watch their pursuers, shutting out the ever-increasing din of the dying engine and willing their lead to increase. Finally she watched the truck fade out of sight as the angle between the vehicles changed. She snapped her head to the front. Turner Lane was in the near distance.
“There it is,” Bill said. “Can they see us?”
“No. We just lost visual contact.”
“I make it a quarter of a mile to the turn. Were they further back than that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Tex said.
“Just keep looking. Hopefully we’ll be under the interstate before they spot us.”
Tex kept her eyes fixed behind them and felt Bill braking hard as he ran up to the intersection at almost full speed, the engine shrieking, accompanied now by a burning smell. She gripped the seat back as he cornered on two wheels, then whipped her head to the right to look out the passenger window back the way they’d come. They roared north on Turner Lane, and were almost past a farmhouse when she glimpsed the nose of the truck rounding the curve.
“Did they see us?” Bill demanded.
“I don’t know, but I saw them for a second, so we have to assume they did. Besides, if they get much closer, they’ll be able to track us by sound. We’re not exactly inconspicuous.”
Bill nodded as they sped under I-66, engine shrieking and smoking. “How far is the AT access?”
Tex was fumbling with the AT guidebook. “Should be just after Walker Ridge Road forks off to the right. I don’t know how well it’s marked. It might be just a blaze on a tree or something.”
“Guess we’ll find out. We’re going to go off road whether we find it or not. If they see the abandoned car, they’ll just run us down—”
“There!” Tex pointed to white blazes on a tree, barely visible across a small open meadow.
Bill veered off the road without slowing and they bounced through a shallow drainage ditch to rumble across the meadow, trailing smoke. In seconds they plunged into the trees, following a narrow walking path through thick foliage, branches slapping against the side of the car.
“What’s ahead!”
Tex fumbled with the guidebook. “It says a small footbridge over a stream—”
The foliage opened somewhat, revealing the bridge not more than thirty feet away, a neat little structure perhaps three feet wide with handrails, the depth of the stream it crossed unknown.
“Hold on!” Bill shouted and floored the accelerator as he jerked the wheel to the right. They bounced through the shallow stream and up the other bank, back on the narrow hiking trail winding its way up a steep hillside. A hundred yards up the hill, the Toyota shuddered and died.
They sat in the sudden calm, the smells of the dying engine thick in their nostrils, the silence broken only by the tick of the overheated engine cooling for the final time.
The sound of the pickup grew behind them, then faded away to the north.
“They went past,” Bill said, relief in his voice. “Where does Tucker’s Lane go and how soon before they figure out we’re not still ahead of them?” Tex was already studying the map.
“It dead-ends about five miles up. That’s the bad news. The good news is it has at least a dozen side roads that dead-end off of it. It should take them quite some time to figure out where we gave them the slip.”
“All
right, I guess we ought to grab Levi’s escape packs and get the hell out of here. Let’s do a quick check and take some extra food if we have room. But we ought to be out of here in ten minutes tops.”
“Agreed,” Tex said.
They climbed out of the SUV and did a quick inventory, adding things to the packs as they could fit them, and eight minutes later they shouldered their packs and started north.
“Just out of curiosity,” Bill said as they labored up the steep hill under the unfamiliar weight of the packs, “did you happen to notice how far it is to Maine on this friggin’ goat track?”
“Twelve hundred and one miles to Mount Katahdin,” Tex said, “but I think probably only around eleven hundred to where you’re headed.”
“Wonderful. Just friggin’ wonderful!”
Chapter Fourteen
United Blood Nation HQ
(Formerly New Hanover County Department of Social Services)
1650 Greenfield Street
Wilmington, NC
Day 15, 10:00 a.m.
Jerome Singletary fought back the pain and lifted his face from the blood-spattered road map spread in front of him.
“I CAN’T show you on the map! I’ve never been there that way, so I don’t know the way by the road.”
Kwintell Banks glared. “Then show me on the river. The river shows on the map.”
Singletary shook his head, causing more blood to escape his flattened nose and drop on the map. “It’s not the same. This here’s a road map. Where it shows the river isn’t accurate.”
Singletary had no idea if that was true, but it made no difference since he had only the vaguest idea where that asshole Levi’s camp was anyway. He did know if Banks concluded he didn’t know, or figured he could get there without help, Singletary was a dead man.
“So what you saying? We need some sort of special map?”
Singletary nodded. “A river chart. Maybe we can find one on one of the boats. I’ll help, if you let me go.”
Banks scoffed. “You know that ain’t happening.”
“Then put me with some of your men to look, or you might as well shoot me now, ‘cause you can’t beat something out of me I don’t know.”
Banks dropped his hand to his holstered pistol and glared. Singletary began to shake, fearful he’d overplayed it.
Then Banks relaxed a bit. “All right. I’ll put two soldiers on your ass, and you go look for this map. But you try to run, you gonna wish you were already dead. Understand?”
“Absolutely,” Singletary said, “but one other thing—”
Banks’ hand went back to his side. “What ‘other’ thing would that be?”
“Even when we find the chart, you need a guide. I mean, the chart will get you close, but all that riverbank looks alike. You need someone who’s been there before. And you can’t just roar up in some big-ass noisy boats, he’ll hear and maybe ambush you. You need fishing boats with electric motors so you can sneak up on him quiet like. I can help with all that stuff.”
Banks cocked an eye. “How you know so much about this? I thought you was a city boy?”
In truth, all Singletary knew was what he gleaned from eavesdropping, but that fact seemed unlikely to keep him alive.
“I learned from Levi. He wanted me to stay with ‘em on the river, but I need to get back to Baltimore. Before I left his place, he showed me everything. I know the whole setup,” Singletary lied.
“I don’t know. Special maps. Special boats. Might all be more trouble than it’s worth. Maybe I’ll just cap yo’ ass and be done with it.”
“It’s worth it, man! Levi’s got all sorts of shit! He’s real tight with them soldiers and Coast Guard guys. They was even talking about giving him some grenades.”
“Grenades? Why the hell didn’t you say something before?”
“‘Cause I’m not sure,” Singletary said, “but I am sure it’s worth your while, grenades or not. He’s got a lot of stuff there.”
Banks hesitated, then nodded to two men standing nearby. They moved to each side of Singletary, hooking him under the arms and dragging him to his feet.
“Okay,” Banks said, “you go find the stuff you need. And I hope you ain’t bullshittin’ me, ‘cause if you are …”
Relief surged through Singletary. “Don’t you worry a bit. I won’t let you down …”
But Banks had already turned his back as the two thugs dragged Singletary into the hall and started toward the door to the street, unaware their captive was already plotting his next move. He might not know where to find Levi, but he did know his chances of escape were much better on the river.
FEMA
Emergency Operations Center
Mount Weather
Near Bluemont, VA
Day 15, 10:00 a.m.
The Honorable Theodore M. Gleason, President of the United States, sipped his coffee then set the bone-china cup back into its saucer on the walnut table. He was the only occupant of the well-appointed conference room. He wore khaki trousers and an open collar golf shirt, but for all its informality, the look he cultivated was studied and deliberate. He sat not at the head of the huge table but midway down its length and closest to the door into the room. He would greet his guest personally and as equals, without the barrier of the table or by subtle implication any other barriers between them. A part of an artful lie, of course, but he hoped a convincing one.
It was what he did. He was a politician, and a good one. Some might consider that a pejorative, but he cared not at all, for he was a student of history. Statesmen might be venerated in the history books, but it was politicians who made things work. To his mind, his was the noblest of professions, and he was a proud practitioner of the political arts.
He looked up as the door opened. Representative Simon Tremble looked rumpled and sleep-deprived. He was badly in need of a haircut and sported a two-day growth of beard. Gleason rose with a practiced smile and outstretched hand.
“Simon, thank you for coming.”
Tremble ignored Gleason’s hand and looked him in the eye. “I had a choice?”
Gleason’s smile flickered only slightly as he dropped his hand. “Oh, there’s always a choice, Simon. But have a seat.” He gestured to a chair beside his own. “Coffee?”
Tremble shook his head and dropped into the offered seat as Gleason took his own chair.
“Simon, I just wanted to let you know how much I regret the necessity—”
Tremble arched his eyebrows. “Necessity? Arresting the Speaker of the House and the President Pro Tem of the Senate was a ‘necessity’? For God’s sake, Ted, we’re from your own party! It’s not like we were wild-eyed anarchists!”
Gleason’s face hardened. “I gave you an opportunity—”
“Opportunity? Is that what you call it? Sorry, but from where we were sitting, it looked a whole lot like an ultimatum.”
Gleason tried another tack. “I understand, Simon, I really do, but this is a disaster of unprecedented scope. I had to be decisive and must continue to be. There’s just no time for business as usual.”
Tremble shook his head. “I might buy the argument we need to streamline things and take immediate action, even to the point of stretching constitutional safeguards to near breaking. But what you and Crawford are implementing, totally without oversight or regard for dissenting opinion, is an absolute outrage.”
Gleason spoke through clenched teeth. “I had to do it.”
“That would be a hell of a lot easier for me to believe if you hadn’t been quite so eager to declare yourself king, Mr. President. Or should I say Your Majesty?”
Gleason’s face reddened, but he recovered his composure quickly. “I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree on the necessity, Simon, but I didn’t ask you here to debate. What’s done is done, and I hope we CAN agree it’s in the nation’s best interest to get power restored as soon as possible. So I’m asking for your public support. It will go a long ways towards reassuring folks out there if you
join me in some of the emergency broadcasts.”
“Un-frigging-believable! You lock me and my son up without access to a soul, and now expect me to endorse your coup? But why talk to me one on one? I figured you’d want Senator Leddy in on the deal too, along with anyone else you’ve had under house arrest. What’s the problem, did Jim turn you down?”
Gleason hesitated. “I’m sorry to say Jim Leddy died five days ago.”
Tremble sat shocked. “H-how did he die?”
“Very suddenly. A brain aneurysm. But he didn’t suffer, thank God.”
“Is there … was there a service? I’d like to pay my respects.”
“We thought it best not to upset the public with news of yet another loss. There’s been so much bad news as it is. There was a cremation and a small family service.”
Tremble glared. “How thoughtful of you. What about Linda? How is she holding up?”
Gleason shrugged. “She was upset, as you would expect.”
“Was?”
“I haven’t seen her since the memorial service,” Gleason said.
“And why is that?”
“As you know, Mount Weather shelters the national leadership and their dependents. With Jim’s unfortunate passing, Linda no longer qualifies. It’s tragic, but these are difficult times. Linda was provided air transport to her and Jim’s last home of record,” Gleason said.
“YOU DROPPED A DEFENSELESS WOMAN IN THE MIDDLE OF SAINT LOUIS?”
“She was disembarked with her luggage at the St. Louis airport. It was all according to established policy, of course,” Gleason said. “I’d think you would be all for established policies. After all, my deviation from policies to take ‘unilateral action’ seems to have upset you no end.”
Tremble’s face clouded and he clenched his fists as he half-rose from his chair.
Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1 Page 24
