by Nathan Jones
That worried him even though he hadn't expected differently. A lot of people had died, but there were still hundreds of millions alive. Those people would need to eat long term, and the only hope for that was the land going to ruin all around him. Most individuals didn't have the skills or tools needed to head out and start a farm where they could begin growing their own food, and in the chaos of the nation falling apart it was unlikely any groups would band together to work larger tracts of land with heavy equipment.
Things weren't going to get better any time soon.
In fact, there was every indication they could still get much worse. The nation needed fuel to get back on its feet, and it needed to get back on its feet to start producing fuel and making use of it in the large scale ways modern life required. Lacking that people would keep on dying in large numbers until only those best able to provide for themselves or most skilled at taking things from others remained. The thought of living in such a harsh, vicious world wasn't an appealing one.
Trev's thoughts had taken a gloomy turn today, but it wasn't just the unkempt fields around him that led to that. Today was the deadline for when Gold Bloc forces were supposed to completely pull out of Canada, on threat of nuclear war. He hadn't had any news since leaving Aspen Hill, but given how things had been at that time he was going to go out on a limb and say they hadn't. And he'd go even farther out on that limb to say that the remnants of the US military or government or whoever was calling the shots hadn't made good on their ultimatum, either.
More importantly, even now Gold Bloc troops, primarily Russians from the northeast and Chinese from the northwest, could be pouring across the border in their invasion of the weakened country. That had certainly seemed to be the direction things were going when he left, which put an itch between his shoulder blades. Even though he was several hundred miles from the Canadian border he still found himself glancing north as if expecting to see Gold Bloc planes or vehicles on the horizon.
Those sorts of thoughts were enough to put some spring in his pedaling, keeping him going mile after mile.
His goal was to reach Nebraska by nightfall, roughly 170 miles. That seemed more than doable considering that the road was downhill most of the day as he descended onto the Great Plains. In fact, after the difficulty of navigating the mountains for the last few days he was actually having a fairly enjoyable ride.
Even though it was already late afternoon he still felt fairly fresh and in good spirits. Not only was the going much easier, not to mention faster, but on these small highways everything appeared abandoned with not a person to be seen, giving him an opportunity to enjoy the scenery. Such as it was.
But not too much. Trev may have looked inattentive as he pedaled along, mostly because the road ahead was flat and he could see well along it, but he was cautious when the road curved out of sight or when he passed potential hiding places. That said, for a stretch like this there wasn't much to worry about.
Or so he thought until a man perfectly camouflaged in a ghillie suit popped up out of the ditch alongside the road not thirty feet in front of him, yelling for him to stop.
Even caught by surprise Trev didn't hesitate to act. He veered his bike hard towards the other side of the road and threw himself off it, landing on one leg hard enough to jolt it at the knee and hip before collapsing in a roll.
The maneuver would've worked better if he wasn't wearing his loaded backpack, but as it was his roll stopped with an abrupt jerk, the burden on his back absorbing most of the force of his landing with a few disturbing crunches that he desperately hoped weren't anything important.
He went for his Glock in its underarm holster as he shoved up to one knee with his other hand, and even as his bike skidded along the street to stop several feet in front of him he ended up facing off with his surprise (and surprised) attacker. He wobbled there, slightly off balance, and did his best to calm his breathing and steady his aim, ready to fire.
For his part the camouflaged man was still reacting to the sudden, near suicidal maneuver, trying to sight in on Trev with his rifle. That gave Trev just enough time to get a shot off before the man could shoot him, he thought.
But before he could squeeze the trigger he caught sight of four other shapes similarly dressed in ghillie suits or hiding beneath ghillie cloths rising into view on every side, all with weapons turning to point his way. At his best he'd only manage to take down the first man, maybe one other, before he was gunned down himself.
The people around him seemed to realize it too, and the older man in a ghillie suit a bit behind him and to his right sounded equal parts confident and worried when he spoke. “Put it down, son. We're not looking for trouble.”
That was a bit hard to believe under the circumstances, but it looked as if Trev didn't have much choice. He felt the leaden weight of resignation sinking over him with the realization that he was once again getting robbed. As slowly and carefully as he could he holstered his .45, keeping his other hand raised over his head. Once the pistol was put away his gun hand quickly joined it there. “I'm not either. You're the ones who jumped me.”
The man slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled Trev to his feet, giving him a chance to wince at the scrapes along his left side and the pain in his leg joints from the rough landing. “Believe me, my family believes in live and let live. Under normal circumstances you wouldn't have even seen us as you rode past. But we figured it was only neighborly to warn you about what you were about to ride into.”
As he spoke the man lifted Trev's arm slightly to examine the blood trickling towards his wrist from his scraped elbow, and he chuckled in slight disbelief. “We didn't expect you to go all commando on us when my boy popped up. I don't know whether that stunt was crazy or brilliant, but we should probably get you cleaned up as we explain ourselves.”
* * * * *
The Lincoln family that had ambushed him boasted four generations, although not all of them had been present at the road.
The grandfather and toddler great-granddaughter had stayed well off the road with the steel frame handcart they carried their possessions on, all hidden under yet another ghillie cloth. Leaving mother, father, son, daughter, and son-in-law to hide in the ditch with their fake-grass concealment.
They'd known he was coming well in advance thanks to Trent, the son who'd originally popped up yelling for Trev to stop. The man in his mid-20s always went ahead of the group in his ghillie suit with binoculars to give advance warning of anyone approaching, with plenty of time for his family to hide or, in this case, plan a little surprise.
Trev could only count his blessings that after all the precautions he'd taken on his trip, although obviously not enough, when he finally ran into a situation he couldn't handle he was at the mercy of people who had some. It would've been the end for him otherwise.
As it was he was invited to join the family as they settled in for lunch, helping him patch himself up with the modest first aid kit Lewis had given him. When that was done they went on to offer him food without hesitation, and while they ate they explained why they'd gone to the trouble of stopping him.
Actually Trev had unintentionally broached the topic when he was given a couple of pancakes made that morning and tried to protest that he had his own food.
“Eat it,” Maddie Lincoln, the mother, had insisted. “It's the least we can do after the scare we caused you.” The youthful-looking woman went on to explain that they'd been fortunate to pass a town five days ago where numerous grain silos had fed the population and all refugee comers all winter, gradually turning the place into a trading post. The family had managed to barter for all the grain they could carry, as well as a few other necessities, using some gold coins they'd brought with them.
Trev was half-disbelieving at the tale. Most places were so hard off for food that it couldn't be purchased or bartered for at any price, and at the moment precious metals were low on the list of items people were willing to trade for. But then again he remembered Lew
is mentioning that the places that did have food and didn't have fuel to distribute it might end up in a different situation.
Without fuel a lot of crops had gone unharvested last fall, but the harvests that had come in often hadn't had time to be shipped around where they were needed. That or the long term storage for those staples became permanent, fair game to anyone close enough to make use of them.
It turned out that Newtown, the place in question, had found itself in exactly that situation.
Which was the reason the Lincolns had stopped him. That sort of prosperity tended to attract trouble these days, and while Newtown itself was more than able to handle anything that came at it the same couldn't be said for the travelers coming to and from the place to trade.
Bandits had set up along the road west of town, and only Trent's vigilance had kept the family from falling prey to them. With his warning they'd hid beneath their grass camouflage as the bandit group passed by going the other way, then hurried on before the dozen or so shabbily dressed men and women could return.
Trev was grateful for the warning, especially when Trent described the assortment of weapons he'd seen on the bandits, which included half a dozen guns as well as axes, machetes, and knives. He assured them he'd travel very carefully the next day, although he was a bit more noncommittal about the idea of visiting Newtown.
The warning given, the Trev and the hospitable family spent the next half hour or so exchanging cautious stories of their experiences since the Gulf refineries attack and sharing information on the roads they'd just come down, which for the other party would be the road ahead.
At that point Trev was starting to get a bit antsy about wasting daylight, and he could see the Lincolns were starting to glance at the sun as well. So he offered dessert as a parting gift and stood to retrieve his pack, lying next to his bike by the side of the road.
“We couldn't accept that,” Trent argued, to agreeing murmurs from the rest of the family.
Trev went to his pack anyway, smiling slightly. “If you won't accept thanks for sharing a warning that might just have saved my life, or for sharing your food with me, at least let me offer you something for the gift of decent human company.” He reached into the box wedged at the very top of his pack and pulled out one of the display boxes of candy bars.
When he turned back he saw seven pairs of eyes staring at what he held with unblinking intensity. From oldest to youngest the travel-worn faces mirrored the same expressions of awe, hope, and longing.
He tossed the box to Trent, who awkwardly fumbled to catch it. “Think one will be enough?”
“We'll sing your praises for the rest of the day for the chance to split a candy bar,” the grandfather said. “That's a treat we haven't had in a while.”
Trev's smile widened. “I meant the box. I've got plenty.”
Trent shook off his surprise. “We really can't take this. Do you realize how much this has to be worth?”
“Sure. I had about the same reaction you guys did when I found them. That's part of the joy of giving.” Trev stepped forward and offered his hand in farewell. “Travel safely, and thank you again.”
He made his goodbyes as the family cracked open the box and began handing out the treat. From the almost guilty excitement on their faces he had a feeling that they'd had to dig deep to refuse his offer, and were more than happy to accept when he insisted.
The Lincolns didn't tell him where they were going, and Trev kept his own destination to himself. It was a relief to meet friendly faces on the road, but trust came in degrees. As it had even before the world went insane.
Once he'd shaken hands all around he thanked them one last time for the food and the warning and hopped back on his bike to continue on. Five days for them on foot, especially pulling a handcart, wasn't much time at all a bike. Which meant he'd probably reach this Newtown sometime early tomorrow.
Although going around the bandits the Lincolns had seen would slow him down, as would carefully scoping out the town to see whether it was really safe once he got there. At the moment the question was whether Trev really did want to risk visiting this trading post when he already had the supplies he needed and a bad judgment call could mean his life.
He had some reasons for going, and also some reasons to give the place a wide berth. It would be something for him to mull over as he traveled, as long as it didn't distract him from keeping an eye out for the bandits. He could also sleep on the decision tonight.
Finding the Lincolns had been an improbable blessing in a world gone mad, but even so Trev wasn't quite sure he could believe an entire town where food was plentiful and strangers were welcome.
* * * * *
Getting robbed would be costly and potentially fatal. On the other hand the only cost for caution was time and attentiveness. That was a bargain at twice the price.
Trev saw no sign of bandits as he continued on to Newtown, even though he went slowly and stopped often to check the road ahead, behind, and in every direction. He also looked for any opportunity to take smaller roads that ran the same direction, although unfortunately he didn't see any.
Maybe the bandits had moved on, or Newtown had already dealt with them. Or maybe they were now haunting another road leading to the trading post.
Newtown had been built along an old asphalt road a little ways off the junction where 23 heading east merged for a short distance with 83 heading north/south. Going on his first sight of the place, from as far away as he could manage using his binoculars, Newtown did seem to be exactly what the name implied: a newly built town. The buildings all looked like recent construction, clustered around a dozen massive grain silos and a few garages and equipment sheds that looked to have been repurposed into storehouses or barracks or other official uses.
The grain silos were what immediately caught Trev's eye, and not only because the shiny metal was visible from a long ways off. He wasn't sure what their exact capacity was, but each looked like it held tons and tons of grain. If all of them were full then that was enough grain to feed thousands of people for years.
Trev looked at the squat metal cylinders that dwarfed even the largest buildings clustered beneath them. Thousands? Maybe even tens of thousands. A dozen Aspen Hills could eat for a decade on the grain in those silos before they even needed to start thinking about finding alternative sources of food.
By the looks of it the town only had a population of a few hundred, maybe as many as a thousand. How was this place not a target for every single group in a five state area?
The answer was as apparent as the question. Because it was out in the middle of nowhere and nobody had the fuel to reach it. Not to mention that with this sort of bounty to draw on the residents of Newtown could sell the grain for practically nothing and still become immensely prosperous off the deals, while at the same time gaining the goodwill of anyone they met.
From what Trev had heard from the Lincoln family it sounded like that was exactly what the town was doing. Which could solve a lot of problems for him and his family and the people of Aspen Hill, maybe not immediately but down the line.
Assuming they'd been telling the truth about the place, which he had no reason to doubt. Still, better safe than sorry, so Trev made a few preparations before hopping back on his bike and pedaling into town. Even with that slight delay he'd reach it well before noon, and with any luck his business there wouldn't take long and he'd be able to get a lot more ground covered before nightfall.
He saw quite a few sentries on the way in, set up on high points around town behind sandbag fortifications wearing body armor and toting serious weaponry. He watched them carefully on the approach, relieved that they showed no signs of hostility as he drew closer.
The one nearest the western road lifted a radio as Trev passed, announcing his presence to someone in town, but other than that made no move to stop him. Trev waved as he rode by and the man nodded curtly.
The town had sort of an old west feel to it in spite of the shiny meta
l silos dominating the landscape, with crudely built structures running along the cracked asphalt street built with bits of wood, scavenged glass, and poorly fitting doors. Rather than being painted most had been covered with plastic or tarps, and he saw far more holes in roofs letting out lazy curls of smoke from cooking fires than stovepipes. Electricity didn't seem to be an amenity.
Aside from the repurposed garages and sheds closer to the silos one of the only exceptions to that crude construction was the first house he passed on his way in: a small, neatly painted cottage with a fenced in yard and a freshly mown lawn. It looked as if it had been there long before the Gulf refineries attack and the impromptu boomtown sprang up around the silos, and definitely didn't fit in with the rest of the construction.
A wide wooden porch ran along the front of the cottage, offering some shade from the late morning sun. Seated on it in a comfortable padded porch swing was an older man wearing jeans and a red buttoned shirt, a cowboy hat resting on the table beside him alongside a half full glass of lemonade and a paperback novel. The gold of a sheriff's badge stood out prominently from the red cloth over his heart, and around his waist he wore a law enforcement belt with a holstered 9mm, handcuffs, and a stun gun among other tools of the trade.
The man straightened lazily from his seat and came out onto the street as Trev approached. “Welcome to Newtown,” he called.
Trev braked his bike and sat on it uneasily, thinking of his Glock in its underarm holster and the last encounter he'd had with law enforcement while wearing a concealed weapon, even one he was legally allowed to carry. The sheriff's hand rested casually inches from his service weapon, the ease of his stance suggesting he could bring it to bear fast.
Trev had practiced drawing over the winter and was pretty fast himself, but the last thing he wanted was a fight. Especially since with his hands on the handlebars he'd almost certainly lose that race, which didn't leave him many alternatives but to hope the Lincolns had been sincere about this place.
