Highway: A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival

by John Q. Prepper

  As he violated each of her father’s things—her things now—her anger increased like a boiling pot of noodles ready to burst over its sides. She was handcuffed to a table, separated from her brother, and this man was going through her stuff like it was his own, and all for show.

  “What the hell do you want with me?”

  “She speaks!” He smiled a sly smile, full of himself. He had no intention of answering her.

  He held up a piece of paper, the one with Abe’s info on it. “I know dis place, on de otter side of da river heah.” He motioned with his head. “Old Man Roberts sold it for a bunch of money to sumbody I never met. Is dis where ya was going?”’

  He folded it up and put it into his shirt pocket and then grabbed the wooden box, the one with the medals. He slid open the unlocked chamber—the one Travis had figured out with ease. “Whadda we have heah?” He pulled out the Purple Heart and held it up to her. “Why are ya walking around with deez? Yah a little young for da Army, ain’t yah?”

  “Those are mine! You have no business in my stuff.” She swung out with her uncuffed hand and tried to lunge at him, the sharp metal of the cuff biting into her other hand as the chair she was attached to screeched across the floor. Spittle erupted from her curled lips.

  He yanked it just out of her reach.

  A knock on the door startled her. Looking past Clyde, she could see a form behind the curtained entrance.

  “Come in,” said Clyde shaking her father’s medal box at her, like he was toying with a cat. She wanted to sink her claws in him.

  The grating door slowly opened, revealing that hulking giant of a black man, with his head down. “sorry to bother you, Clyde, but Zach wanted to talk to you some mo.”

  “All right. Thanks, Big Mike. Watch dis one fo me, wouldya? She’s feisty.”

  “Sure, Clyde,” Big Mike answered as he lumbered through the doorway. The man’s shoulders were so broad, he had to turn sideways to fit himself inside.

  “Don’t get too settled, Blue Eyes.” Clyde was talking to her, but she was ignoring him and staring at Big Mike. “I have many mo questions for yah.” He dropped the box on the table, grabbed his beer, and slipped past the giant black man, out the door.

  With his back to her, Big Mike peeled back the curtains and studied the world outside for a long time. Then he suddenly pivoted and strode to her quickly, like an athletic football player, not as heavy-footed as he looked. “I’m so sorry, missy, fo what dey done to you.” He reached down and released her from her handcuffs.

  Lexi rubbed her pink wrists, while gazing at him. “Thanks, but … why are you helping me?” She stood and tilted her head upward to face the man. He was nearly two feet taller than her.

  “Nuff talking. Pack yo bags. You best be leaving now.” He dropped a car key on the table, and sprinted back to the door.

  She didn’t need any more nudging. She scooped up all of her belongings on the table into the bag, leaving the duct tape for someone else to find, and darted over to Big Mike. “Aren’t there a lot of men out there?”

  “Wait and when I run out this door, follow behind me.” He continued to study the outside, calculating.

  Lexi’s eyes wandered down to the edge of the kitchen counter top where she was waiting with nervous anxiety. She noticed a Bic lighter and a pack of cigarettes. She didn’t smoke, but she had tried them once before. She grabbed both anyway.

  Movement caught her eye. It was the kitchen curtains, fluttering from the fan in the corner. Her gaze darted to the wood paneling and the living room curtains and the stack of books in the other corner of the room.

  “How much longer?” she asked Big Mike as she slid her pack off her back and onto the floor, shoving in the cigarettes. Her thumb rolled over the striker wheel, creating a spark, which ignited a blue flame at the lighter’s tip and at the same time, a smile on her lips.

  ~~~

  “We’re not going to soil her just yet, brother,” Clyde said to Zach, his arm around his brother’s shoulder on the edge of the dock where their voices couldn’t be heard by their men.

  “But Clyde, I promised the men they’d have their fun tonight afta you was done wit her.” Zach said as he picked at the bandage over his crooked nose.

  “I know, but she may have some information about that place we were looking at across the river. They may be well stocked. Besides, this chick has a story to tell and I aim to get it out of—”

  Gunfire.

  The men both looked up, searching for where the shots had come from.

  More shots erupted.

  “There!” Clyde pointed at his brother’s truck bounding down their driveway, away from the house.

  “And look, brother, yo house is on fire,” Zach pointed thru the stand of trees, mostly blocking their view.

  ~~~

  Lexi pressed hard on the gas pedal, her head barely above the monster truck’s steering wheel. Her heart raced faster than she was driving. But she also felt the exhilaration of escape, and just enough of a feeling that she might have made it. She shot out of the stand of trees, and the giant truck leapt onto the highway’s pavement, fighting for traction. She had to pull heavy to the right on the wheel, struggling to stay on the blacktop, but she straightened out and found herself headed in the correct direction.

  Just before the bridge, she jammed both feet against the brake pedal, screeching the beast to a halt.

  What are you doing?

  It was right there. Abe’s place would be right across the river. She knew this based on what the map said, forever etched into memory, and Clyde’s confirmation. All she had to do was get to Abe’s place, and he would take care of her. She would be safe.

  But what about Travis?

  “Damnit,” she yelled and pounded the steering wheel with both palms, bruising two of the few uninjured parts of her body.

  She couldn’t leave him, in that town, all alone. He was her brother for God’s sake. He had no one else but her.

  And like that, she changed her course.

  She gassed the engine and jerked hard on the wheel, pointing the truck sideways. Grinding the gears once more, she found the forward gear and punched the gas pedal again, driving the truck back in the direction she had just come.

  She’d get Travis and then she’d go to Abe’s. Her eyes nervously glanced at Clyde’s private road as she passed, knowing that any moment Clyde and his men would be coming through those trees.

  ~~~

  “Why aren’t we going after her?” Zach yelled at his brother, beside himself in fury.

  “My house first,” Clyde said to Zach. “Pump!” Clyde then hollered at his two men pushing and pulling on the seesaw lever of a manual pump. “Pump!” He pulled the hose farther inside his home and doused the remaining portion of his blackened kitchen.

  It looked like his collection of books and the kitchen were the only areas damaged, mostly from the water. Clyde assumed the blue-eyed devil lit a couple of paperbacks, then used some sort of accelerant to burn his kitchen. A part of him admired her tenacity. He would enjoy making her pay.

  “Okay, turn it off.”

  “You’re goin to let her get away,” Zach whined.

  Clyde dropped the hose on his tile floor, reached into his front pocket, and pulled out the folded satellite map he had taken from her bug-out bag. “No, I’m not. We know exactly where she’s going. Let’s get this cleaned up and then get the other trucks ready.”

  Chapter 19

  Frank

  “You expect me to believe that you were just stopping by to say ‘hi’ after your country was bombed?” The man wearing Colonel Jones’s uniform—a fake Jones for sure—glared at Frank over his tomato-sized nose.

  “Well, not exactly.” Frank sat up a little straighter in his chair, handcuffs clanging against it. “As I told you, Colonel, I stopped by to see my nephew, Private Harry Simpleton.” Frank repeated his lie. “He was supposed to be stationed at this base; something having to do with drones. Then, after visitin
g, I was going to go back to my home in Florida.”

  Frank’s gaze slid down from the colonel’s face to his shoulder, and then to his chest; the man’s eagle insignias and nametag confirmed his position and name. But, this man’s accent and mannerisms, along with what Frank had witnessed thus far, argued against it.

  They were certainly keeping up appearances, just like regular Army. But he knew that he was not in the company of the Army, at least not the US Army. Outwardly, to the casual observer, they looked normal enough in their Army uniforms. But there were so many clues under the surface that were obvious, if you looked: the lack of formalities for everything, including salutes; the hushed conversations among their men; and the manner in which he was being interrogated. Plus, Jones’s eagles were facing the wrong direction.

  Frank wasn't sure what to expect at first. He thought he might be tortured right away, but these people, who he was sure were associated with the terrorists who had nuked America and also captured this base, had chosen something less … physical. It was as if they really didn't seem to know how to account for the likes of him, assuming most visitors would have turned away at the warning sign, before the gate. Frank guessed by the fifteen minutes of questions, Colonel Jones or whatever his real name was had orders not to harm visitors, until he could report his suspicions. Someone else was calling the shots, perhaps even Farook. Everything was way too coordinated. But at some point, when they realized that they weren’t going to get any information from Frank, they’d get orders to either lock him up or kill him. Frank wasn't planning on waiting around long enough to find out which.

  One thing was for sure, based on their nonaggressive questioning: they hadn’t found the case of their own AKs and ammo in his locked truck bed. If they had, he suspected they would be beating him to a bloody pulp about now; at least they’d be trying to.

  Frank just pretended that he knew nothing, playing the part of the amiable, albeit lame older man. He found it was always better to pretend stupidity in the face of his enemy. He knew this ruse wouldn't last much longer.

  After a long pause, Jones reached across a table where the contents of Frank's pockets lay, scooped up a worn leather wallet, opened it, and pulled out a driver’s license. He held it inches from Frank’s face. “Then why does your driver’s license say that you’re from Stowell, Texas?”

  Frank didn’t miss a beat. “That’s my father’s address. He and my mother, who's dead now, have lived in the same place since I was born.” (At least this part of the story was true.) “I’ve always used their address because I travel often and needed a permanent address for my license and truck registration.”

  Jones just scowled at Frank. It was an acknowledgement that this line of questioning wasn't working. If they were going to get any further information, it would have to be by more violent means.

  And Frank couldn’t wait forever for them to open his truck bed and find the fully automatic rifles, or check his cab and find his own weapons and the further incriminating papers under his seat from their dead Texas cell-leader Hassan's operation's center.

  He would need to make his move soon.

  Another man wearing an officer's uniform entered the room and plaintively beckoned Fake-Jones to the back where they spoke in whispered tones, accented with animated hand movements. Both looked at Frank and then the other man rattled off a run-on slurry of words to the other man. It wasn’t English. The man, now even more agitated, raised and aimed his rifle at Frank.

  Jones marched over to Frank, withdrew a pistol and pointed it at Frank's head. Never moving his eyes off Frank’s, he leaned over and released Frank's handcuffs from the chain attached to his chair.

  Normally, this would have offered him the opportunity to look for an escape. In close quarters, he could easily disarm Fake-Jones, grab his gun, and shoot the other man. But he still didn't know what happened to Porter Grimes, as well as the rest of the men and women on the base. He would find them first before he would make his move. He would be patient for just a little longer.

  “We’ll figure out why you’re here, if we have to beat it out of you,” Jones threatened, pushing the pistol barrel into Frank’s back with a grunt of frustration. Frank rose from his chair and out the door.

  “Where are you taking me?” Frank screeched, trying to sound distressed.

  “We're going to lock you away with the other prisoners until I’m told what to do with you.”

  They walked outside into the bright sunlight. Feigning detachment, Frank noticed his truck was parked just to the side of the building; the truck bed was still secure. It was surprising that they hadn’t jimmied it open yet, and he could only figure that they simply didn’t see him as threat enough to inspect further.

  After passing two buildings, they walked to the back of another, labeled Army Museum Administration. Jones pushed the door open for him and they walked down a long hallway, with doors on both sides. At the door marked Meeting Room, they stopped. The other guard sprang from behind them, unlocked the door, and pushed Frank inside.

  An auditorium filled with close to one hundred sets of eyes glared at him.

  It felt like he was the star speaker they had all been waiting for, very impatiently. But these were not faces filled with interested expectation; they were afraid.

  It was an eclectic group for sure: a combination of soldiers, wearing only olive T-shirts and boxers—this explained where Jones and the others got their uniforms; reserve officers, in their fatigues; and the other half of his observers in their civvies. All were silent, as if interrupted mid-sentence.

  An older man, wearing a pressed olive tee and boxers and with the look of a senior officer, emerged from a conference broken up by Frank’s entry. He approached with others following behind him.

  Frank saluted. “Major Frank Cartwright, US Army, Retired, Sir.”

  “Captain Danbury, sir.” Danbury returned the salute. “I’m the senior officer here, since they executed our base commander, Colonel Jones. Where did you come from, sir?”

  Frank quickly glanced around before answering, finding what he wanted. Hurrying to a jar of pens and paper on a front table by a podium, Frank withdrew a pen and wrote, “Can they hear us?” At the same time he spoke very loudly, “I stopped by to see if a nephew was stationed here.”

  The captain read Frank’s note and shook his head vehemently “No!” and then said softly, “No worries, Major. There’s probably someone by the door, but they won’t be able to hear us; the door and walls are well insulated so as not to interrupt those in offices next door.”

  More of the men wearing the olive T-shirts and most of the reserves swarmed around Frank to hear the two senior officers discuss what they knew. All but a couple of the civilians stayed in their seats.

  “Great,” Frank said, resting himself against a first-row desk. “I’m from a small town called Stowell, Texas. I uncovered a group of terrorists who, to their misfortune, selected me as their target. Luckily they didn’t know I was Special Ops and a prepper. A few friends—also retired military—and I sent them all back to Allah!”

  “Hooah” resonated from a few voices around him.

  “Thanks. But the reason why I’m here is that we found intel that leads to the head terrorist: one Abdul Farook, just south of here in Florida. I have a case of their guns and a map showing his exact location. I came here to give this intel to the U.S. Army.”

  “Of all the shit-luck, sir. These bastards got us with our pants down yesterday,” said Danbury.

  One of the reservists spoke up. “Sir, isn’t Camp Mabry closer to you?”

  “True. But you’re closer to Farook’s base and I was hoping to get this actionable intelligence to an Army base that would be able to directly respond. And with communications down or nonexistent, I didn’t want to wait around while trying to get orders from brass in some bunker somewhere.” He paused to see the faces chewing on what he’d told them. “I’m also here to find the son of one of my friends.”

 
“Who’s that, Sir?” Danbury asked.

  “Corporal Porter Grimes.”

  “Several heads scanned the group, to see if he was here.

  “Sir, we haven’t seen SPC Grimes since they took the base.”

  ~~~

  “Have you been able to reach 1T2?” the fake Colonel Jones asked the young prisoner, an Army corporal they charged to operate the radios for them.

  He pulled his headphones off. “I'm sorry, Colonel, what did you say?”

  “Corporal Grimes, I asked if you were able to reach 1T2 on the radio.” Grimes had heard him the first time, but he always acted a little slow to try and get more information. Grimes knew that 1T2 was code for the head of one of their cells, but he didn’t know the real name of the man, only his code name. It was the same for all fifty-two of the listings on the piece of paper he’d been handed. The only thing he could guess, based on their position on the paper, was perhaps their hierarchy; Grimes guessed that the first code name on the list, 1F, was the head of the top cell. But it was all just a guess, because nothing else made sense.

  “Corporal Grimes,” Jones hollered impatiently.

  “No, I have not, Sir. And there's been no chatter on that frequency.”

  “Okay, then try the frequency of the first listing and give me the microphone after you have reached him.”

  Porter Grimes looked at his captor, and wanted to ask more questions, to learn more. At least he wanted to defy his master, to be less amenable than he was. He detested the fact that he was helping the enemy. Then, he looked down to his feet at the previous radio operator’s death trail, a streak of dried redness that ran the floor to the storage closet across the room, where his friend’s festering body was starting to stink up the place. “Yes, Sir.” He quickly twisted the dials to the frequency on the list in front of him and called 1F, wishing he could find out who this man in charge of them all was. “W4ZZ, this is WI5IS, 1A requesting discussion with 1F. Over.”

  Colonel Jones turned to the lone guard and barked an order, and the guard zipped away, presumably to fulfill his demand.