“Why not hide in here and wait it out?” Johnny suggested, scanning the faces around him to see who else was in agreement.
“What do you think they’re so upset about?” Sandra wondered, ignoring Johnny’s proposal.
Holly shrugged. “Take your pick. Frustration. Desperation. But above all else, starvation.”
“It’s been a day and a half since the TSA people stopped handing out rations,” Ann said, bolstering Holly’s point.
Johnny wasn’t buying it. “That might be so, but you don’t see us rioting.”
“I’m going in there to grab anything useful,” Holly said, motioning toward the lost and found room. “And then Dillon and I are gonna hightail it back to Concourse C.” She held the key ring aloft. “If anyone wants to stay, be my guest.”
The others were still exchanging worried glances when Holly charged in. “Someone keep watch by the double doors,” she instructed, holding out one of her knives.
“I will,” Eric said, taking the weapon and heading that way.
The others piled into the lost and found, beginning their frantic search. The room itself was ten by twenty. Against the back wall was a row of wooden shelves, each stacked with suitcases, briefcases and knapsacks.
One by one they yanked them off the shelves, removing any small pesky locks and searching the bag’s contents for anything useful. It wasn’t long before Riley found three large Italian salamis. Other cases of note contained hot sauces called El Diablo and Blow Your Head Off. Sadly, there were no takers. Most of the bags contained mounds of useless personal items.
Johnny held up a moleskin coat he’d just found, examining it with glee.
Eric’s voice came from down the hall. “You guys better hurry up,” he warned. “I’m not sure how much longer those TSA folks can hold them back.”
Next to her, Dillon was rummaging through a case of his own at a glacial pace when he held up a black case. Holly swung her light around and came face to face with two names she never thought she’d be so happy to see.
Smith and Wesson.
“Good job, Dillon,” she said, taking it from him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Johnny said, hovering over them. “That kid’s a regular bloodhound.”
Holly undid the latches and opened the case. Inside was a black Smith and Wesson semi-automatic pistol. Next to it were two full magazines.
“Who the heck travels with a loaded gun?” Riley said, pausing for a moment in wonder.
“Technically, it isn’t loaded,” Holly replied, although she got the girl’s point.
“Last year the TSA confiscated four thousand, four hundred and thirty-two firearms,” Dillon informed them, still digging through the suitcase before him. “Eighty-seven percent of them were loaded.”
“I take it back,” Johnny said incredulously. “The kid’s not a bloodhound, he’s a walking computer. Who the hell needs the internet when you have a Dillon?”
Holly might have smiled at Johnny’s quip had she not been more focused on the firearm.
“Give me your knife,” Ann said. Holly obliged and Ann used it to divvy up the cured meats they’d found in the suitcase.
Johnny held out his hand and tweaked his fingers at Holly in a ‘come on’ gesture. “Give me the gun.”
Holly slapped his hand away. “Not on your life,” she growled. “Do you even know how to use one of these?”
“Sure I do,” he replied. “Last year we played paintball at a corporate event. My team came in first.”
Riley arched an eyebrow at the polished salesman looming before them.
“Okay, we were last, but there’s nothing to it. Just point and shoot, right?”
“Sorry, that’s not good enough,” Holly said. “Not by a long shot. Thank goodness you didn’t cite your kill rate in a videogame as proof of experience.”
Riley and Ann got a laugh at that.
Johnny’s slapped hand was still hovering between them. Holly could see it was starting to shake, ever so slightly. “I just think if anyone should be armed, it’s one of the men.”
Holly picked up the pistol, popping the magazine and pulling back the slide. “For as long as I can remember, I had a fear of guns. No, not a fear, a terror. And for no good reason either. Which is why a few years back I decided it was time to face that fear head on. So I joined a shooting club. Turns out I had a knack for it. Who’d have thought. I might not have been the club champion, but I was somewhere in the top ten. So no, just because you’re a man doesn’t make you a better shot. Thanks for playing though.”
Eric’s frightened voice called out to them just then. “Oh, my God, they’re breaking through.”
Holly put the magazines in her right coat pocket and the chunks of salami in her left. Next, she grabbed hold of Dillon’s hand and ran for the double doors, the others following close behind.
The group pushed out of the corridor and into a scene of pure chaos. Some of the residents of Concourse B had chosen to flee from the rioters by heading in the opposite direction. But that way led to the dead end by Gate B-22. Others were running down the causeway toward Concourse C. A third group had surged forward to help the TSA agents hold back the crushing wave of raging humanity. It was food they were after, pure and simple. The meager rations the airport officials had been doling out these last few days had only delayed the hunger and the rising sense of frustration. People were also angry at the federal government for not coming to their rescue and now, collectively, that rage had mixed with hunger and created an explosive brew.
Holly and the others had just cleared the employee area when five panes of protective glass shattered. Men, women and in some cases children came surging through, many of them bleeding. Some had handkerchiefs over their faces, as though they feared being fired upon with tear gas.
The handful of TSA agents, along with those who had moved forward to help them, were now crushed under a tsunami of humanity.
The rioters ran forward, wielding an exotic array of homemade weapons: clubs, crude blades, lengths of steel pipe. But most came on with only their fists. Like a living stream, one branch of the mob diverted into a nearby Burger King, unaware that it had already been picked clean of anything even remotely edible.
The causeway between Concourses B and C was ten meters ahead, directly in the path of the oncoming swarm.
“We’re not going to make it,” Johnny yelled as they ran, ever the optimist.
Holly grabbed hold of her son with one hand and aimed the pistol at the oncoming crowd with the other. Together they ran for the causeway. She didn’t even have time to tell the others to follow. She could only hope that they would.
She reached the intersection at the same time the rioters did. The causeway itself was thirty feet wide. She made a sharp right, firing two warning shots in the air.
For a brief moment, the mob recoiled before resuming its pursuit. Even from this distance, she had seen the bloodlust in their eyes. If the impulse for their actions had once made sense, all logic and rationality had since been lost as the group mind took over.
A second later, Johnny ran past them in a wild burst of panicked speed, his terrified eyes wide and bulging. That sight was followed by a fleeting sense of relief when Holly turned and saw the others: Sandra, Eric, Ann and Riley. They had decided to take their chances, which was a good thing, except that now Ann and Riley were starting to trail behind. If the crowd got their hands on them, the two women would surely be ripped apart.
Holly slowed, allowing Ann and Riley to draw even with her and Dillon. She swung the pistol around and emptied five shots into the oncoming wall of people, spacing the bullets out as evenly as she could.
Each one struck home, delivering not necessarily a mortal wound, but enough to make them drop. The pileup it created was immediate and precisely what she had hoped for. As it happened, all Holly could think about was the Tour de France bicycle race. Sometimes the smallest of mistakes could take out dozens of riders at once.
Those in the mob who hadn’t been shot or fallen to the ground slowed, for the first time uncertain what to do. The group mind’s spell had been broken, at least for a brief moment. Holly could only hope that tiny window would be enough.
Chapter 8
The snowmobile made life infinitely easier for Nate and Dakota and certainly also for Wayne. Neither of them were prepared to abandon the horse to a certain death and so they had opted to take him along. A length of paracord they’d scavenged from Roger’s cabin offered a workable, if far from perfect, solution. One end was tied to the back of the snowmobile while the other was tied to Wayne’s reins. Dakota’s job was to make sure the line always had some slack, a process made a little easier by paracord’s inherent elasticity.
But Wayne hadn’t been rendered entirely obsolete. The animal was lugging most of their gear: food, water, clothing and extra ammunition. Any weapons remained with them, since chasing a horse spooked by gunfire and explosions was the last place anyone wanted to find themselves in a fight.
Still, cutting through the loose powder on a mechanical stallion had presented its own unique challenges. Nate’s first hard-won lesson had been a simple one. Always stand when driving through deep snow, never sit. Kneeling also worked. Otherwise the snow kicking up the front and over the visor left you with little to no visibility. He also quickly appreciated Dakota’s insistence on taking the goggles and face masks left behind by the dead men.
They must have travelled two to three miles before stopping briefly at an empty farm to gather more hay for the horse. For the most part, the landscape was windswept and barren. It wasn’t until they started moving south along Highway 23 that things changed. The first sign was the increase in the number of buried wrecks. Much like they’d seen in Byron, people seemed to be fleeing north, but from where? Back home, folks had been rushing to escape the ever-widening reach of radiation from the nuclear plant. That meant many of them were heading east towards Chicago and some north, towards what, only God knew.
Soon, the hints of buried vehicles gave way to the sight of arms and legs poking out from wintery tombs. It was a miracle many of them had gotten this far. Had this been summer, Nate might have stopped to offer aid and maybe a scrap of food. But sustenance was far less of an issue when lack of shelter was certain to do you in within a matter of hours.
They were moving steadily past a Winnebago with all of its doors open when the engine on the snowmobile cut out. Dakota lurched forward as the machine came to a sudden halt.
“Hey, why we stopping?”
The gas gauge needle was at the halfway mark. Puzzled, Nate turned the key. In response, the engine turned over several times but never caught. He’d once heard from a friend who owned a snowmobile these things were prone to breaking down. It seemed his friend had been onto something.
“It’s dead, isn’t it?” Dakota asked, a nervous edge to her voice. She had no interest in getting back on that horse if it could be avoided.
“Shouldn’t be,” Nate replied. He tried the key again and this time the engine roared to life. Relieved, they continued on for another mile before the same thing happened. Now an engine light came on.
“There’s something wrong with this thing,” he told her, feeling at a complete loss. Nate could field-strip an AK in fifty seconds flat, but besides the obvious, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do with an engine.
“Keep trying it,” Dakota pleaded.
Nate lifted his goggles, setting them over his forehead. “There’s a guy I know from my days on the force in Chicago. Jason Diggs. He was a police mechanic who worked on our patrol cars. Guy was a genius. We lost touch about a couple months back, but last I heard, he was living in Marengo.”
“Is that close?” Dakota asked.
Nate pointed ahead of them. “No more than a couple miles up this road. Highway 23 runs right through the city.”
“City?”
“More of a small town, really. Truth is it’s just a touch bigger than Byron.”
“Maybe your friend can help us.” There was hope in her voice.
Nate gave the engine another go and it worked. On they went, and with every meter, the number of cars and bodies only multiplied. They were driving through a graveyard. Under any other circumstances he might have skirted around Marengo, a city only twenty miles from the outskirts of Chicago. But given the threat posed by their final destination, avoiding a pimple of a town like Marengo was a difficult argument to make. If anything, it might provide a hint of what the Windy City had in store for them.
•••
Nate and Dakota were relieved the snowmobile cooperated long enough to get them safely into town. A few twists and turns off the highway brought them to Jay’s house, a picturesque marine-blue home with an enclosed porch and a peaked roof. Nate killed the engine and tightened Wayne’s lead so the horse wouldn’t wander into the middle of the street. Better to be safe since you never knew what might come barreling along.
In the driveway sat two vehicles interred beneath several feet of snow. That was hardly a surprise. The state of Jay’s front walkway, however, struck Nate as odd. There were tracks in the snow, but none of it had been shoveled.
He stopped, considering how unlike Jay it was to let that happen, grid down or not.
“What’s wrong?” Dakota asked, rubbing her hands together. All she wanted was to get inside as quickly as possible and warm up. A curl of smoke from the fireplace only magnified her desire.
“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head and continuing toward the front entrance. Nate knocked and waited for someone to answer. For a moment, he swore he could hear the faint sound of voices bickering inside. Sounded like a man and a woman.
Could his friend have transformed his life and abandoned his old bachelor ways? Jay had sworn up and down he’d never get married. Although barely forty years old, he hated being told what to do, how to dress and what to say. Nate supposed anyone with that dim a view of relationships and marriage would be inclined to avoid the institution altogether.
Seconds later, a woman answered, peeling the door open no more than a crack. “What do you want?”
She sounds like a real charmer, Jay, he thought sardonically.
“I’m a friend of Jason’s,” he began.
“Who?”
“Jason Diggs,” Nate said, feeling like he’d entered an old black and white episode of The Twilight Zone. “He also goes by Jay.”
Nate caught a man’s voice booming in the background. “What do they want?”
“Jay don’t live here no more.”
Nate’s only view of the woman was through the narrow slit in the door, but it was enough to see she had dark rings around her eyes and the raspy voice that came from a lifetime of self-abuse.
“When did he move?” Nate asked, not entirely sure what to make of all this. Second to Jay’s love of cars was his love for renovating his house. He always had one project or another on the go. New wood floors, refurbished stairs, a modern bathroom, the list was never-ending. Jay liked to keep busy and over the years the long list of projects he’d ticked off his list gave testament to that.
“What are you, a cop?”
“Maybe,” Nate lied.
“He sold us the house about a month ago. Moved away, but don’t start asking me where, ’cause I got no idea.”
She had lots of class, Nate thought, grimacing. Too bad it was all low.
He raised himself up on his tippy toes and peeked past her. Behind the woman stood a skinny man with a scruffy chin. His eyes were wide and nervous. He looked like a bird. But that wasn’t the main thing that caught Nate’s attention. “He sell you all his furniture as well?”
The woman invited Nate to go procreate with himself―in words infinitely more colorful―and then slammed the door.
That tingly sensation he often felt when things didn’t seem right was spiking off the chart. He left the front stoop and cut across to the driveway. Wiping the snow from the first vehicle, Nate felt
his heart sink.
It was Jay’s black Ford pickup truck. His pride and joy. There was no way in hell he would have sold that, not unless he was preparing to take a step off a bridge or walk into traffic.
The loud growl of an engine drew their attention to the closest intersection. There, a massive truck with a makeshift wedged plow barreled through the snow, kicking it into the air in two even streams.
In another direction came the distinct sound of gunfire. Moments later a group of nomads, bundled against the elements, swung around the corner, fighting against the deep snow. They wore heavy backpacks and dragged a sled behind them. Nate also noticed they were armed—at least one hunting rifle, slung over the shoulder of the lead individual. It was quickly becoming apparent the situation was growing far more dangerous by the second.
“Let’s go,” he said, heading back to the snowmobile.
“Wait, what about your friend?”
Nate didn’t want to answer that just yet. At least not with what his cop instincts were telling him.
“I mean, who’s gonna fix this thing?”
“I’m not sure,” Nate admitted. The three most dreaded words in the English language for any red-blooded American male.
“We’re not leaving town, are we?”
He could see Dakota was chilled to the bone. “Not before we talk to the chief of police.”
Chapter 9
Chicago O’Hare International Airport
Holly and the others reached Concourse C and didn’t feel any safer than they had in the causeway. By now the mob was regrouping from Holly’s attempt to slow them and would be out for blood. Not only that, but unlike between Terminals One and Two, Concourses B and C had no such glass partition. It might not have done the TSA agents much good, but at least it had been something.
As they arrived, fear was already surging through those in Concourse C. The shouts and cries of the rioters followed by Holly’s gunshots in the causeway all signaled that something very bad was happening.
America Offline | Books 1 & 2 | The Day After Darkness Page 26
