by Akart, Bobby
They weren’t due to refuel for another hundred miles, and his speed was dictated by the number of cars blocking the road. As they all focused their efforts on avoiding breathing the contaminated air, he didn’t notice the temperature gauge that was part of the round speedometer located at the center of the dash. It was steadily rising as the smoke from the wildfires began to clog the truck engine’s air filters with contaminants. In essence, the Bronco couldn’t breathe, and it was beginning to overheat.
“I think we’ve got them all,” Lacey announced as she leaned back in her seat. The air vents were stuffed with washcloths and socks.
Owen raced past the Pueblo airport and the looted Target Distribution Center on the east side of town. As they put several miles between them and Pueblo, they began to notice the drop in temperature once again.
“Can you believe the fires warmed the air that much?” asked Lacey. “If it weren’t for the smoke, it would’ve been nice to thaw out for a little while.”
“Too late for that, I’m afraid,” added Owen.
“It’s less smoggy now. How about some fresh air?” asked Tucker.
“Not yet, son,” said Owen. He hadn’t complained, but his throat had been sore for two days. It was itchy as if it had been scratched by something. To get some kind of relief, he’d been constantly swallowing his saliva, but that only served to make his throat more raw.
Because their watches no longer functioned, telling time was impossible. They basically mapped out a day’s worth of travel, and once they reached a certain point, they’d begin looking for a spot to sleep for the night. And, with a little luck, they could find more gasoline.
Pueblo had been their designated stop, but because of the thick smoke that engulfed their truck, they had been forced to continue on. Darkness was setting in, and like the previous few nights, the winds and cold air picked up with the lack of any sunlight.
“What’s the next decent-sized town?” Owen asked.
Lacey paused for a moment as she flipped through the pages of the map book. “Well, it’s roughly two hundred forty miles to Dodge City, Kansas, where we ditch Highway 50 and start working our way south.”
Owen nodded and glanced at the fuel gauge. He did some quick mental calculations based upon the remaining gasoline in the containers.
“We’ve got enough fuel to make it. It all depends on if we wanna push—”
He stopped midsentence and unconsciously let off the gas pedal, causing the truck’s torque to drop the front end. The unexpected change in momentum thrust both Lacey and Tucker forward in their seats.
Within seconds, their trip came to an abrupt halt.
Chapter Forty-One
Wednesday, October 30
Near Amelia Court House, Virginia
Peter began to wonder if there was such a thing as having too many firearms. In addition to the duffel bags strapped to the bicycle’s rack, he had a Remington 700 hunting rifle tied to the top. He still rode with a backpack and the sling bag that contained his original stash of handguns with ammunition. It now contained a Glock pistol and extra magazines for the AR-15, which was also shouldered on his back. In addition to being bulky, it added quite a few pounds to the load he had to carry.
Yet he pedaled on. Much farther than he’d originally envisioned when he set out that day. He’d crossed over Interstate 64 and the James River, both of which led directly into Richmond barely thirty miles away to the east.
Hour after hour, he put distance between himself and Washington. Gradually, the number of refugees on the road thinned out, as did the number of dead. He tried to reason with himself as to why that was the case. He surmised it was the fact he was in a more rural area. Then he contemplated how the passage of another day had resulted in more people dying from dehydration or radiation poisoning.
He’d been judicious about wearing the gaiter over his face. The frigid arctic air that had invaded the Continental U.S. made the face-covering more tolerable and even a necessity. At first, he’d cursed the cloth gaiter as being akin to wearing a diaper over his face, but eventually he got used to it.
He was also diligent about taking the potassium iodide and the other supplements he’d acquired. Only time would tell if they helped him. All he knew was that it had been several days since DC had been hit, and he was not feeling the ill effects of the radiation that raced outward from the nation’s capital.
He continued to tick off the miles as he drew closer to the small town of Amelia Court House. In Virginia, many of the towns that were also a county seat were called Court Houses.
Unlike the word courthouse, which applies to the actual building that was the center of government in a town, places like Amelia Court House, and its more famous neighbor Appomattox Court House, where the end of the Civil War was negotiated, were common across Virginia.
The town appeared to be little more than a crossroads from what Peter could tell on the map, but he was uncomfortable traveling through it in the dark. He’d decided it was better to see what lay ahead of him rather than continuing to travel on unfamiliar roads at night.
Peter barely caught a glimpse of a barn sitting on top of a hill off the highway. The gravel road was overgrown with weeds, and the galvanized mailbox was rusted, barely hanging onto the wooden post in the ground. Everything about the place looked abandoned, so he took a chance.
It was difficult to ride up the hill on the part gravel, part dirt driveway. Each time he hit a sharp edge of the limestone rock, he feared he might puncture a tire. The thought caused chills to run up and down his spine as he envisioned walking a thousand miles to the Keys.
The long tree-lined driveway wound its way up the hill toward a clearing. Once he’d made it into the opening, he was able to see a white, two-story farmhouse sitting near the barn. Peter was leery of his surroundings. The buildings appeared to be abandoned, but without entering, he really couldn’t make that judgment.
In a world without electricity, it was not unexpected for a house to be dark inside. However, most farmers kept a ready supply of candles or even kerosene lanterns, as power could frequently be lost in a storm. Unlike metropolitan areas where power lines were buried underground, most rural areas still utilized old-fashioned power poles spaced a few hundred feet apart. It was not uncommon for trees or heavy limbs to strike a power line, leaving residents in the dark.
Peter gently laid his bicycle on its side in some tall grasses. He opted to carry his handgun inside to check out the house instead of the more powerful AR-15 or the hunting rifle. He was not that familiar with the AR-15, having only fired a similar weapon in Abu Dhabi under duress. He had no recollection of how the gun worked. Plus, he’d replenished his supply of nine-millimeter ammunition on the bridge that morning.
As he trudged up the hill toward the house, he began to get an uneasy feeling that he was being watched. Perhaps it was the eerie weather that lent the appearance of a horror flick. Or perhaps it was the fact the farmhouse looked like so many others in movies where mass murders took place or hauntings scared people to death.
He tried to shake the thought out of his head. Peter laughed, chastising himself aloud. “Get a grip, Pete. Norman Bates doesn’t live here.”
Peter decided to take a different approach than he had the night before at the golf course clubhouse. He knocked loudly to make sure anyone lurking behind the thin white curtains adorning the windows wouldn’t consider him a threat.
“Hello? Is anybody home?” he shouted loud enough to frighten off an eastern screech owl that was hanging out near the barn, looking for field mice.
After no answer, he tried again. “My name is Peter Albright! I’m from Wash—um, Fairfax. I’m making my way home to Florida, and I wondered if you’d let me sleep inside tonight.” These days, claiming to be from the District didn’t endear him to those outside the Beltway.
There was no answer and no sign of activity. He tried banging on the door again.
“Hello! I’m unarmed,” he lied as he surreptitiously shoved his
pistol into his paddle holster. He held his hands high in the air to sell the subterfuge.
Peter walked up and down the front porch. The wooden boards gave under his feet, weakened by years of exposure to the elements. He reached the end of the wraparound porch and stared over toward the barn. He glanced down the side of the farmhouse and then upward toward the bedroom windows. The glass was still intact, and there was no sign of a candle flickering inside.
Convinced that the property was vacant, Peter walked to the back of the house to check for vehicles. When he found nothing, he made his way into the barn. There was an old tractor inside and farm implements scattered about. The horse stalls were empty, and there was no evidence of livestock feed stored anywhere.
“Well, alrighty then,” he muttered as he wrapped his jacket around the front of his body. The plunging temperatures left him dismayed. He’d learned a lot about nuclear winter in the last couple of weeks, but he hadn’t thought they meant it literally. Perpetually cloudy skies were one thing. Subfreezing temperatures in late October were another.
Peter marched across the open area between the house and the barn. A gust of wind pushed him forward slightly, and then the sound of a door slamming frightened him. He was exposed, and his instincts forced him to one knee.
Then the door slammed again. Peter’s head was on a swivel as he looked for cover. The wind was suddenly blowing hard, and it chilled him to his core. He glanced to his right and discovered several ton bales sitting just behind the back of the house. Many years ago, older balers produced smaller square or rectangular bales. The modern balers produced large round bales known as ton bales. They didn’t necessarily weigh a ton, as most reached fifteen hundred pounds.
Regardless, they were Peter’s best source of ballistic protection at the moment. He rose to a low crouch and rushed across the yard before sliding to a stop behind the hay bales. He sat with his back to the hay as he gripped his weapon. He was closer to the house now and began to realize the sound of the door closing was rhythmic, not sporadic as if someone was coming or going from the house.
He rolled his eyes for letting his fear get the best of him. “It’s just the damned wind blowing a shutter or something, Pete. Get your ass up and check out the house.”
He did as instructed and rose to his feet. Still, he was alert as he rounded the ton bales to approach the back door. He held his gun in a shooter’s position directly at the door until he reached the first step leading to the back porch. A wood-framed screen door was the source of the slamming sound as it was pulled out and pushed inward by the wind gusts.
Peter wedged his body between the screen door and the Dutch door leading inside. He tried the knob and found it to be locked. He turned his pistol in his hand and gripped it by the muzzle. Then he gently tapped the glass window with the pistol grip until a part of the pane fell inward. He gently tapped out a couple more pieces and reached in to unlock the door.
Peter turned the handle and pushed it open, but he remained behind the wall. He held his breath and attempted to listen over the now howling wind. A strong gust hit the back of the two-story farmhouse with a broadside slam, causing dust to fall off the rafters of the porch roof. Peter kept his focus and listened for any signs of movement inside.
After a moment, he stepped into a hallway that was lined with bench seating and wooden pegs protruding from the walls. Some held horse tack, and others were covered with a variety of jackets. Rubber work boots were lined up under the bench seats, as were several pairs of well-worn tennis shoes.
It was dark now, and Peter had to risk using his flashlight to walk through the house. He retrieved it from his Velcro cargo pockets and pushed the rear button to power it on. He adopted the crossover grip he’d used effectively in the last several days to clear interior spaces and moved deeper into the farmhouse.
The first room he came to was the kitchen. He immediately noticed something odd about it. Nearly all of the wooden cupboard doors were open. And the shelves had been emptied. However, it did not appear to have been looted. The residents, or somebody, had picked the place clean without causing any damage or mess. Nothing was in disarray, including the small corner table sitting at the back of the kitchen. A recipe book was sitting open, and a single stem vase, complete with a dead flower, remained undisturbed.
He walked through the kitchen and entered the dining room. Like the kitchen, everything was in perfect order. The table was set. Chairs were pushed in. The china cabinet was still filled with family heirlooms.
To Peter, the place seemed to be abandoned. Yet something in his gut said to call out again.
“Hello! I mean you no harm. I just need a place to sleep for the night. Please show yourself so nobody gets scared and makes a mistake. Okay?”
Like before, nobody responded, but out of precaution, Peter continued to search the remainder of the house. He shuffled along the old plank flooring that had been installed when the home was built in the 1830s. With each step, the floor gave a little and squeaked where the planks were nailed to the floor joists.
After searching the upstairs, he entered the foyer and spun around, marveling at family photos adorning the walls. Whoever owned the home had relatives dating back to the Civil War. There were several photographs taken using the original wet-plate negatives that took nearly twenty seconds of exposure to generate an image.
Peter shined his light on each of the pictures as uniformed men cast their gaze upon him from above. He shuddered as he thought of the history of this old home. If only the walls could talk, he thought to himself.
Chapter Forty-Two
Wednesday, October 30
U.S. Highway 50, East of Pueblo, Colorado
Owen was frustrated and angry with himself. He looked forward in dismay as steam billowed from under the hood of the Bronco. He’d been so careful about monitoring his gauges and took his eye off the ball for just a few minutes as the wildfires distracted him. If he’d been paying attention, he would’ve stopped miles back closer to Pueblo to allow the engine to cool. At least he could seek out help in the larger town than what he expected was in front of him.
“Where are we?” he asked with a sigh. It was now dark outside, which required Lacey to use her flashlight to read the map.
“When did we pass through Pueblo? Twenty, thirty minutes?”
“I don’t know,” Owen snapped back. He immediately felt bad for his tone of voice and apologized. “I’m sorry, honey. This is my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Lacey set the map on the dashboard and turned toward her husband. She placed the flashlight under her chin, pointed upwards, just like we all did as kids to make a scary-looking face at Halloween.
“Look at me,” she said with her teeth bared menacingly.
Her attempt to turn her sweet face into something frightening failed in that respect. Otherwise, her ploy worked, and Owen immediately burst out laughing.
“You can’t be funny when I wanna be mad and frustrated.”
“Yes, I can.” She snarled and made other facial contortions.
“What are you? Five, six years old?”
“Maybe?” Lacey stuck her tongue out.
Owen threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. Tucker, not unexpectedly for a teenager, didn’t find his parents so humorous.
“You guys are weird.”
Lacey started laughing and exchanged high fives with her beloved husband. The two then reached across the console to hug one another and kissed.
“Weirder and weirder,” mumbled Tucker as he sat in the back seat with his arms folded. “What are we gonna do?”
“Do we have a manual for this thing?” asked Lacey as she opened the glove box. She set the handgun on top of the map book and fumbled through the papers. Other than insurance information, registration, and half of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich she was saving for later, it was empty.
“No,” said Owen. His mood became dour again. “Honestly, I never thought I’d need one. I guess I
could’ve bought one on eBay or someplace, but I never imagined I’d need it. It’s not like this truck has any bells and whistles on it.”
“Dad, shouldn’t we take a look? It could be something simple.”
“Tuck, I don’t know anything about cars. I never had that car gene that my friends had growing up. As long as I could turn the key and make it go, I was fine.”
Lacey had returned to the map. “Well, to answer your question, I think we’re right about here.” She pointed to a point on the map to the east of Pueblo near the Arkansas River that snaked along the north side of the highway. Owen leaned in to study the atlas. To give him some context, Lacey traced their route and then ran her finger along the highway toward the east.
“It’s hard to tell,” said Owen. “Whadya think? Four or five miles to the next town?”
Lacey shrugged. “Probably. Maybe a little more? Plus, there might be some farmer along the way who knows the difference between a radiator and a transmission.” She laughed at Owen’s expense.
Owen stuck his tongue out at his wife in the dark. “Yeah, well, I know the difference between an algorithm and a bitmap.”
“Are we gonna take a look at fixing this thing or not?” Tucker was growing impatient as the inside of the truck began to get cold.
Owen turned and motioned for his jacket. “You wanna help?”
“Sure,” Tucker replied unenthusiastically.
The two McDowell men stepped out of the truck and quickly donned their jackets. Using Tucker’s flashlight to guide them, they lifted the hood of the Bronco and propped it open with a metal rod attached to the frame. Steam came billowing out and quickly mixed with the soot-filled air around them.
Both guys began to cough as they waved their hands back and forth to clear the air. Finally, with the aid of the flashlight, they were able to see the top of the motor.
Sitting atop the four-barrel carburetor was an exposed air filter topped with a polished chrome lid with the name Edelbrock embossed into it. The filter, which was usually white, was black and dented. It had been taking in debris and smoke their entire trip. The trip through the dense, smoky air in Pueblo had caused it to choke off completely.
