by Nathan Jones
Maybe he just had an overactive imagination. After that Lewis hadn't seemed bothered by dark shapes on other camping trips, and when Trev had professed fear at something outside his cousin had actually laughed at him about it. That had stopped him from any more talk about the monsters his imagination populated the shadowy world with, but he'd still been frightened of them for years afterwards.
He'd long since grown past those sorts of fears and was well past seeing monsters in tree shadows by this point, but knowledge had given his imagination fuel for things that actually existed. Riding his bike along the dark road he'd been looking twice at shapes he thought were bobcats, dogs, or people hiding in the underbrush, reassuring himself that they were just shrubs or fenceposts or whatever.
On the plus side, it had kept him on the edge of his toes in case he spotted actual danger, although he'd had to fight to keep a crying wolf thing from going in his own head.
Needless to say Trev was relieved when the sun finally rose over the horizon.
That visibility turned out to be important, and it was a good thing he hadn't started earlier, because if so it would've still been dark when he crested a hill about a half our later and he might not have spotted the roadblock on the highway ahead until he blundered into it.
Trev immediately dropped low on his bike and went still, hoping against hope he hadn't been spotted. Then, just in case he had been and time mattered, he wasted no time in turning around and riding fast the way he'd just come.
A roadblock like that seemed like a perfect ambush spot for highwaymen, just below the top of the hill ahead where they'd be out of sight of anyone following the road from the east. The flow of humanity must've been predominantly coming from that direction for them to set up their ambush like that, and come to think of it Trev had been forced to go out of his way to avoid people heading west more and more often the farther he'd gone yesterday.
But he was coming from the west, the direction the highwaymen didn't seem to be as interested in covering. And a good thing, too, since even as wary as he was while he traveled if he was coming from the other direction he would've probably crested the next hill over and found himself within ten feet of the barricades spread across the road.
Presumably under the guns of the men who'd put them there. At that point it would've been too late for him, as he'd learned painfully with the Lincoln family almost a week ago. And he very much doubted anyone who'd planned such an elaborate ambush on the road had honorable intentions.
He really hoped he hadn't been seen, or that if he had been he'd reacted in time to get away. While he was listing things he hoped for he included that the highwaymen wouldn't have any fuel, since if they had enough to run even a single fuel efficient motorcycle or car he wouldn't be able to outrun them no matter how fast he pedaled.
At least by this point he was confident that if the enemy was on foot or also relying on bicycles or something similar then he had enough of a head start they'd have trouble catching him. And in the shape he was in, only a few hours into the day's trip, he'd like to see them try even if he was towing a trailer.
Since turning his back on the roadblock he'd been pedaling hard and was moving at a decent clip, a speed he rarely managed unless he was going downhill. Up until now he'd avoided pushing for these kind of speeds at any other time since it would quickly exhaust him. And, like he'd learned well on his numerous hikes, going long distances at a reasonable pace was far, far faster in the long run.
He just hoped he wouldn't have to keep it up for long, and strained to hear the sound of an engine behind him over the wind whistling in his ears. He might not hear an electric car or something with a quiet gas engine, but he was fairly confident the roar of a motorcycle engine would be clearly audible with plenty of time to warn him.
After about a minute, though, even that precaution didn't feel like enough. If whoever was at that roadblock had quietly followed him he could get shot in the back without even realizing it. He was probably being paranoid, since he'd only been in sight of the roadblock for a few seconds and he hadn't seen anyone manning it. For all he knew it could've been abandoned a long time ago.
But even so Trev braked for just a moment, ears straining for the slightest sound.
To his dismay he heard exactly the noise he'd dreaded approaching swiftly from behind: the rumble of engines. Motorcycles, from the sound of it. They must've seen him after all.
Motorcycles were a good choice now that fuel was almost impossible to find, since they'd get better gas mileage and would do better off-road in case there was danger to avoid. Sure, they wouldn't be able to haul much, but they'd definitely do the job for a cross country trip. In fact, if Trev'd had access to some gas he probably would've chosen a motorcycle himself to get to Michigan.
Too bad the stuff in Lewis's tank hadn't been good for anything but Molotov cocktails.
Unfortunately he didn't have a motorcycle, and there was no way he'd be able to outrun them on a bicycle. Especially while pulling a trailer. So he made for the nearest turnoff, a smaller gravel road, and pedaled hard for a thicket a hundred or so yards away where he could hide.
When he reached it he rode the bike straight through the largest opening between the trees, hoping he didn't puncture his tires. The trailer nearly snagged on branches coming through, but finally tore free and into cover. After taking a moment to make sure none of it was visible Trev leapt to the ground and tore his Mini-14 off his back, lifting the scope to his eye as he squirmed forward to where he could see the highway but still hopefully be out of sight.
He saw three highwaymen headed his way on the sort of road motorcycles meant for long distance trips, which unlike their off road or dual sport counterparts wouldn't do so great at trailblazing. The men were all wearing thick, padded clothing reinforced with Kevlar, as well as full motorcycle helmets.
Each of those helmets was painted with a different number of small skulls in what looked suspiciously like some sort of kill count system, and all were heavily armed. The one in the lead had what looked like a shotgun in a scabbard on his back, while the other two each had an assault rifle slung over one shoulder, and all had a heavy knife and holstered pistol on their belt.
At the speed they were going they'd reach the gravel road in less than a minute, and from there they'd be on him in no time.
Trev debated between staying in hiding hoping they'd pass by, and using his rifle to give his pursuers some incentive to turn back while they were still a reasonable distance away. His main hesitation didn't come from not wanting want to hurt anyone he didn't have to, although he certainly didn't. Not even people who obviously wanted to hurt him. The debate came from not wanting to get into a fight he might not be able to win if there was a chance he could avoid it entirely.
Of course the people coming for him had their hands busy handling their motorcycles, with their weapons still on their backs, so he'd be able to get some shots off before they had time to respond. He could possibly chase them off if he opened fire from far enough away.
Unfortunately the choice was taken out of his hands when the lead highwayman pointed at the turnoff Trev had taken: either they'd seen some sign of him there, they'd been following close enough to see him turn off in the first place, or they knew the area well enough to guess this was the most likely route their quarry would take.
How they knew didn't really matter, because the three motorcycles veered onto the gravel road and started his way. They'd reach Trev's hiding spot soon, putting him in a position where defending himself would be hard if not impossible. With no other good choice he grit his teeth and sighted carefully down his scope, doing his best to time the shot on the fast-moving target of his lead pursuer.
His first shot either missed or didn't do any real damage, but his second shot shattered the headlight and obviously spooked the rider. The bike veered and began to brake, then its rear tire spun out and it flipped onto its side dragging a cursing rider along the gravel.
With his Ke
vlar-reinforced jeans the man didn't look like he was hurt too badly, and when the motorcycle finally skidded to a halt he immediately scrambled to get it back up, pointing down the road towards Trev with a rude gesture and cursing loud enough to be heard over the rumbling engines.
Since he could hear them they might be able to hear him, too. “Turn back!” Trev yelled as loud as he could. It was probably a stupid risk to take revealing his position, but he wanted to give them a chance to let him know if their intentions weren't as hostile as they obviously appeared to be, just in case.
The other two highwaymen had screeched to a stop when their leader went down, and they stiffened when they heard Trev's voice. But rather than turning back as directed or trying to shout a response they started to unsling their rifles.
Trev couldn't afford to hesitate any longer. He'd given them a chance to back off, but at this point he was about to lose his chance to effectively defend himself. There didn't seem to be many options other than to shoot before he got shot himself, and for the moment all three were fairly easy targets.
He opened fire while they remained that way.
His first target was the nearer of the two highwaymen drawing their weapons, two shots to his thoracic cavity. The man's heavy jacket looked as if it did a good job protecting its wearer from road rash, but it didn't do quite as good a job against accelerated lead poisoning. The man went down, possibly for good.
After seeing their friend drop the other two highwaymen must've decided their prey wasn't worth the fight he was putting up. The one who'd crashed quickly got his motorcycle up again, and both skidded their bikes around and headed back the way they'd come in a roar of engines, leaving the third man behind.
That was fine with Trev. He let them go and bolted for the motorcycle, having the idea of upgrading his ride. Probably a good thing to do in case the highwaymen decided to come after him again seeking vengeance or, more pragmatically, the weapon he'd used to shoot their friend.
As he ran he held his Mini-14 ready in case the man he'd shot put up a fight, but the highwayman was curled up around his stomach gurgling in a way that didn't sound good. The man didn't even seem to notice as Trev stepped around him to pick up the bike.
To his disappointment the gas gauge read nearly empty. He probably wouldn't get more than twenty or thirty miles on that, if he was lucky, and it definitely wasn't enough to justify leaving his bicycle behind.
So he shot a hole in the gas tank, retrieved the highwayman's rifle from where it had dropped as the man fell and his pistol from his belt, and ran back to his own bike. His intention was to get out of there while the getting was good, hopefully quick enough to avoid being punished for delaying to go after the motorcycle if the other highwaymen returned.
As soon as Trev had yanked his bike out of the thicket he hopped on it and pedaled furiously once more, returning to the highway he'd been on to backtrack to the nearest alternate road so he'd be harder to follow. From there he'd do his best with Lewis's map to find a route that circled far, far around the highwaymen and their roadblock.
He'd add miles to the trip, but it was worth it not to get his head blown off or have everything he owned stolen at gunpoint.
* * * * *
That was the last he saw of the highwaymen, thankfully. Using alternative routes he managed to get over thirty miles past the roadblock, the effective range of the motorcycles if they all had the same amount of gas as the one he'd disabled, before returning to the highway.
There he spent a few minutes carefully inspecting the road in the direction of the roadblock and listening for the telltale sound of engines. Only when he'd reassured himself that it seemed safe did he get back on his way, pedaling hard in spite of his swiftly growing fatigue.
Over the next several hours he had to stop or turn aside to avoid an ever increasing number of people heading the other way. That pricked his conscience, and he took the risk of calling out a warning to the first group he passed from a safe distance, describing the roadblock and highwaymen ahead.
After that he found a convenient sign and used a neon colored marker he had with his other camping supplies to write a large warning about the roadblock in capital letters. It seemed like the least he could do before continuing on, although he stopped a few more times to write other warnings.
He wasn't the only one scrawling graffiti on signs. As the day crawled on he passed more and more messages left by people heading the other way from Michigan, and none of them were heartening. He saw doomsday type rambling, neighborly warnings to flee south while the getting was good (many of which used unneighborly language), and far more commonly obscenities directed at the Gold Bloc and at “blockheads”.
That was the first time Trev had seen the term used to describe members of the invading force and it made him smile, even though he thought it sounded a bit stupid. He supposed when it came to pejoratives you had to work with what you had.
He didn't get as far as he would've liked that day, mostly due to how he'd woken up too early, gone too slow in the darkness, then exhausted himself fleeing the highwaymen. Not to mention having to take circuitous routes to avoid people and because he was having trouble finding reliable highways heading the direction he wanted to go. As it was he had to push hard to even manage 140 miles, and it meant once again riding in the darkness.
He managed to make it into Indiana, at least, putting Chicago a decent distance behind him. He stopped near Kingsbury, taking even greater pains in the dark to leave the road well behind and find a good hiding place, then gratefully collapsed into his sleeping bag. He ate a hasty meal tucked inside as it warmed up around him, then passed out with visions of fighter jets dancing in his head.
Thankfully none passed overhead in the night to wake him up.
* * * * *
The next morning, Trev's thirteenth day on the road since leaving Aspen Hill, he took it a bit slower starting out. He reached Michigan's state line a bit over an hour into his ride, but although he was nearing the end of his trip he still had most of the state to travel across. He was also riding directly towards a threat that everyone else was running away from.
Even more worrisome was that he passed far fewer people on the road, as if he'd reached the tail end of Michiganders getting while the getting was good. That was a bad sign.
That day he rode Highway 66 up to thread the needle between Lansing and Grand Rapids, both of which had boasted large populations before the Gulf refineries attack. As a precaution he wanted to get out from between the two cities before nightfall, so as the hours passed he really pushed for distance.
Unfortunately the light gave out while he was still between them. Since he wanted to set up camp while he could still see he decided to stop a bit south of Woodbury, satisfied that he'd managed 160 miles even if he hadn't gotten as far as he'd would've preferred. Although maybe being so close to the population centers wasn't too big a deal since it looked like everyone had fled south.
Trev hadn't seen a single person in the last several hours, and was starting to have real concerns both for his own sake and for his family still well to the north. He'd passed a sign about noon that warned in greater detail that the Gold Bloc troops were pushing down from Sault Ste. Marie and Toronto to flood into Michigan from two directions, sweeping up everyone they caught. That put Greenbush right between the two invading forces.
The only hope he could cling to was that Greenbush was out of the way of anything useful and might've been overlooked. He just had to make sure he got there without being caught himself.
Needless to say that night he was even more careful about hiding his camp.
The next day he got up early and pushed harder than ever, hoping he could make it to his family before nightfall. It was an unrealistic hope since he still had about 220 miles to go, but he could dream.
Just like the evening before he didn't pass a single person on his trip. What he did encounter, however, was the noise of another jet passing by overhead that morning. It was
a bit paranoid to be afraid he was going to even be spotted by a fighter jet, let alone targeted, but he still hurried to get under cover until it had passed by and moved on.
Not long after that he was forced to cross I-96 going between Lansing and Grand Rapids, and he took a long time inspecting the road in either direction with his ears straining for the noise of engines before finally hopping on his bike and pedaling furiously across, not slowing until it was out of sight behind him. He made it without seeing or hearing anyone, to his relief.
It was all smaller highways for most of the rest of the day, but with only an hour or so before dark he had to cross I-75 and there he wasn't so lucky.
He heard the sound of engines ahead as he approached and immediately went into hiding, even though they seemed to be sticking to the interstate and no vehicles were headed his way on the small road he was on. Still, he waited until what sounded like a large convoy had passed, heading south by the sound of it, and kept waiting until even their engine noises had faded away. Only then did he cautiously approach 75.
Trev didn't see anyone there, and like with 96 earlier he furiously pedaled across it. When he heard the sound of an approaching engine just before getting to the other side he nearly had a heart attack, and pedaled even more furiously to get down the off ramp and out of sight behind some cover.
From there he watched as a single truck, military but of a foreign make and with different markings than the ones used by the US Armed Forces, roared past in the left lane heading the same direction the convoy had gone.
After that scare he would've preferred to put the interstate well behind him, but it was getting dark fast. And even more than last night he wanted to make sure he had enough light to find a good hiding place, without needing to use his flashlight and reveal his presence. So he only went a few more miles, keeping an eye out for a good secluded camping spot.
