Charges

by Stephen Knight

  The old man nodded. “We know. We’re ready. When it comes time, we’ll do what we have to do. Of course, you’ll hopefully be long gone by then. And I’d recommend you get to it. You have a couple of hours of walking ahead of you before you get back to 641.”

  Vincenzo waved farewell to the farmer and his crew. He headed off toward the trail, returning his map and pen to his knapsack.

  Vincenzo walked for almost seven hours. The farmer’s directions had been pretty accurate. The area was mostly semi-rural farm land until he made it to Walnut Bottom Road, then it became a little more industrial. Sprint Drive was also where a local hospital—Carlisle Regional Medical Center—was located. It was a busy place, and quite a few Army troops were guarding it. He considered trying to pass through their area of control but thought better of it. Instead, he crossed a bank parking lot, went through a thin screen of trees, then rejoined the road well past the medical campus.

  Late afternoon, he found his way back to Route 641. The roadway was clear of soldiers, but several other travelers were present. Vincenzo took shelter beneath a halted tractor-trailer to drink some water and eat one of his MREs.

  It was twilight before he made it to the next town, Newburg. The elevation was increasing, and the Appalachians lay before him. He felt like hell, and he didn’t know how he was going to be able to tackle any substantial inclines, but he figured if he stuck to a road, he’d be better off. The real heights were still a day or more away, so he had some time to consider any alternate routes. At the moment, all he wanted to do was get some sleep. His legs and feet were killing him. His pants were sagging even more than they had earlier in the day, so he pulled them up and cinched his belt a little tighter. At the beginning of his journey, he had weighed maybe a hundred seventy pounds. He guessed he’d lost about ten of that. Even his boots felt a bit looser, which worried him a little bit. The last thing he needed was an outbreak of blisters.

  Finding a campsite was difficult. He was surrounded by fields, and the closest trees were perhaps a quarter of a mile away, down Covered Bridge Road. The road appeared deserted, so he headed down it, paralleling yet another field. He saw a farmhouse out in the expanse, its windows illuminated by pale light. Either a generator was in action, or the place was full of candles.

  Night was well on the way when he made it into the trees. He found a narrow pathway more by luck than by sight and followed it for a few hundred feet, before stepping off into the dark brush. He considered switching on his flashlight—something he hadn’t really done since leaving New York—but he didn’t want to give away his position. So he eased in amongst the trees, wincing as twigs and rotting branches snapped beneath his feet. Something smelled a little funky, and he wondered if he might be entering a bear’s den. A bear attack would be the cherry on the cake of his day, but he was counting on not being that unlucky just yet.

  He found a small clearing and spread out his sleeping bag. He drank some water, slathered on some bug repellent, then stretched out on his makeshift bed. The darkness was almost absolute. All he heard were insects trilling to each other and the light breeze rustling the leaves overhead.

  No gunshots. Who would’ve thought?

  He passed out almost before the thought finished forming in his head.

  24

  When Vincenzo woke up, an ant-covered face was staring at him from about ten feet away. With a strangled shout, he sat up and pulled the Beretta from its holster. He scooted back into the brush on his ass, keeping the weapon trained on the person.

  The face didn’t move, but the ants crawled across the pale flesh. The man was lying half on his side, his mouth open, revealing a swollen, blackened tongue. Insects crawled in and out of his orifices. They even ambled across the man’s milky, dry eyes. One arm was stretched upward, as if he had died reading for the tree canopies.

  Well, now you know why it smells a little funky here. The man looked to be in his late fifties. He was dressed for outdoor travel—cargo pants like Vincenzo’s and a thin Henley shirt. The butt of a pistol stuck out from the sturdy belt, and the crotch of his pants had a stain. The man had soiled himself before he died, and it looked as if his death hadn’t been all that long ago, perhaps a day. The body was still in rigor mortis, which explained why his arm was reaching for the heavens. Vincenzo felt an itching sensation and realized ants were crawling on him as well. Swearing under his breath, he practically vaulted to his feet, slapping and swiping at the insects. Fortunately, the repellent prevented many from paying him a visit, so the task didn’t take long.

  If he hadn’t been so exhausted, or if the light had been better, he would have seen the corpse before bedding down. He wondered what the hell a guy was doing out in the middle of the woods and, more importantly, what had killed him. He looked around, hoping to put that piece of the puzzle in place. There were no signs of a struggle, though he did spot a set of tire tracks on the trail he had walked up last night.

  Following the tracks with his eyes, he saw that they led to a big utility vehicle, three quarters of which was hidden beneath a camouflage net. Moving closer, he realized the camouflage netting was still wrapped around two of the corpse’s fingers. It was as if the man had dropped dead while either preparing to leave or setting up for a stay. Vincenzo holstered his Beretta and knelt beside the man. Dude, did you drop from a heart attack?

  He could see no evidence of foul play, no gunshot wounds, no stab wounds, not even a bump on the guy’s noggin. The funky smell definitely came from the corpse, even though it hadn’t been dead long enough to start rotting. Vincenzo figured the source of the odor was contained inside the man’s pants.

  Vincenzo stood and went over to the vehicle. It was an old Blazer, of the very early 1970s variety. Despite it all, he found himself smiling. His first vehicle as a kid had been a 1978 K-5 Blazer, Cheyenne package, which had promptly been stolen four days after he’d bought it for six thousand dollars from a used car lot in East Flatbush, Brooklyn. The camouflaged one was older but in much better shape than his rust bucket had been. He pulled off the netting, taking care not to tear it along the mirrors and the radio antenna sticking out of the front right fender like a lightning rod. The vehicle was entirely black, and when he touched the hood, the paint felt rough—a flat matte finish, tough and durable, as though the vehicle was being prepped for restoration. A lift kit held the body well above the big knobby tires. He reached for the driver’s door and was relieved when it opened easily. There was no interior light, but the keys were in the ignition. He climbed in and turned the key to the Accessories position. The idiot lights in the dashboard lit up.

  “Oh, wow,” he whispered then turned the key back to the off position. It still has power!

  He noticed a rifle lying across the passenger seat. He picked it up and pulled it into his arms. A Springfield—a newer M1A, with a composite stock. A ten-round magazine was loaded in the well, and a shoulder strap hung from the mounts on the bottom. Vincenzo had fired a similar weapon—one of his hunting buddies had owned one. He pulled back the bolt, and there, gleaming faintly in the dim light, was a cartridge. The weapon was ready to go. Vincenzo eased the bolt back into place and stood the rifle in the passenger side foot well.

  He checked the back of the vehicle. It was full of camping gear, several cases of water, and food—more food than Vincenzo had seen in days. He slumped in the driver’s seat and clutched the steering wheel with shaking hands. Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you.

  He climbed out and rolled up the netting then opened the upper half of the rear hatch and tossed it inside. He gathered his own gear and placed it behind the front passenger seat.

  Next, he returned to the body and picked up the pistol, a Springfield .45 caliber, XDm series. He removed the man’s heavy belt, wrinkling his nose at the stench. The belt had a neat little surprise—a thin blade concealed inside the buckle.

  He fished out the man’s wallet and opened it gingerly. The picture on the driver’s license more or less matched that of t
he corpse, minus the ants. His name was Walter Scott, from Coatesville, Pennsylvania. In life, he had apparently been a sour sort of individual, since he had favored the camera with a challenging glare. His dark eyes were clear but a bit hostile, and Vincenzo had no doubt that Mr. Scott was a tough customer when push came to shove. He and Mr. Scott were the same height, which might come in handy, as there were spare clothes in the back of the Blazer.

  What to do about the body? Are you going to help yourself to the man’s possessions and not even bother to give him a burial?

  Vincenzo considered that for a few minutes before deciding that burying the man was out of the question. He just didn’t have the time, and there was always the chance that someone else might arrive. He wound up dragging the body away from the Blazer and covering it with leaves and brush. After that, he practically bathed his hands with sanitizer.

  “I’ll find your people and let them know where you are,” he told the corpse. “That’s a promise. And I’ll return your stuff to them, too.”

  He climbed back into the truck and turned the key. The Blazer started right away, which gave him immeasurable relief. The fuel tank was just below full, and the odometer read 69,735 miles, damn low for a vehicle that was more than forty years old. Punching the clutch, he dropped the vehicle into reverse. He stalled it out on the first try and had to restart it. After playing with the clutch, he managed to get it rolling back up the trail. The Blazer bounced a bit on its stiff, heavy-duty suspension as the big tires rolled over ruts and rock before the truck made it to the road. Using the mirrors as well as sticking his head out the window, he pulled onto Covered Bridge Road. Once there, Vincenzo kept rolling and turned the truck until the brush-guard-protected grille was pointed in the direction of Route 641. He set the parking brake then hopped out to do a quick walk-around.

  From the door frame, he thought the original paint job had been green. The tires were properly inflated, and there were heavy-duty bumpers on both ends. Mounted on the brush guard were additional lights, old-school KC halogens. He popped the hood and saw that Mr. Scott had apparently paid a lot of attention to the Chevy’s rebuilt 350 cubic-inch engine. It was normally aspirated—no fuel injection and nothing too difficult to maintain, at least in warmer weather. He slammed the hood closed and climbed back into the driver’s seat.

  In the better light, he studied the dashboard. It was a stock machine, more or less rebuilt to the factory-new condition. He laughed when he saw the air conditioning switch, and he turned it on. Cool air blasted from the vents, and he was pretty sure that Mr. Scott had added that aftermarket. The windows were of the roll-up variety. The interior was all black vinyl, two bucket seats up front, a bench seat in the back. Inside the center console was a road atlas, ammunition for the pistol and rifle, some spare magazines, several packs of Winstons cigarettes, and a pack of heat-softened cinnamon-flavored Dentyne. Vincenzo popped a piece of the gum in his mouth, released the parking brake, and put the Blazer in gear.

  He roared through the town of Newburg without stopping, carefully weaving around the dead cars and trucks. It was still quite early, but the sun was up, and some people came out of their houses to watch him roll down the highway. One young boy ran out and jumped around, waving and hollering. Vincenzo waved back and gave a quick toot of the horn. What emerged was a full early 1970s honk, music from an era long forgotten, when men were men and cars and trucks were gas-guzzling fire-breathers.

  On the other side of the town, whenever he saw a long stretch with no vehicles blocking the road, he kicked the Blazer up to seventy-five. He slowed only to maneuver around stalled traffic and, once, another Amish covered wagon. He waved at the man and woman sitting inside the black carriage, but they only stared back, perhaps irritated that some form of technology with more than one horsepower still existed. The black horse pulling the wagon didn’t seem to mind, aside from flicking its ears in his direction.

  Vincenzo’s stomach rumbled, and he decided it was safe enough to pull over. He brought the Blazer to a halt on the downward slope of a hill. Just in case it wouldn’t start by turning the ignition, he could get a rolling shot at starting it by popping the clutch. He set the parking brake, switched off the ignition, and stepped outside.

  The fields to his right looked to be cared for, whereas the ones to the left were growing wild. He didn’t see a farm house, but a narrow road cut through the tended fields. He pulled out the rifle and carried it to the rear of the Blazer. The weapon was obviously well-cared for, though Vincenzo could see it had been used. It was a working man’s weapon, not some monkey’s tacticool range queen. He shouldered the rifle and looked down its length. As far as he could tell, the sights were in good shape, though he’d have to actually fire it to be sure.

  He slung the weapon then opened the Blazer’s split tail gate. He went through the supplies there, helping himself to a bottle of water as he worked. There were cans of beef stew, corned beef, and Spam, along with a multitude of vacuum-sealed dry goods. He found a neatly packed four-person tent. The spikes were dirty, so it had been used relatively recently. A cooler still half full of ice, contained sodas, water, and even several cans of Budweiser. Vincenzo laughed at that, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  He opened a can of beef stew and ate it cold, using a plastic spoon from his own pack. He then popped a can of Bud and guzzled it. He belched loudly. He couldn’t remember a time when beer had tasted so good. He drained the can in less than two minutes and was surprised to feel a pleasant buzz. Now, now. No time for a DUI stop.

  He took a quick piss in the ditch then returned to the truck and pulled out the road atlas. Mr. Scott had already used a grease pencil to plot a route to Fredenburg, Minnesota, a town northwest of Duluth. Vincenzo felt a pang of guilt. Mr. Scott’s possessions were so helpful, Vincenzo thought that he should have treated the body with a bit more kindness. Well, that’s how it goes.

  The next town ahead was Roxbury, and it was probably smaller than Newburg. Vincenzo decided he would speed through that one without stopping as well. The next town of any substantial size was Mountain Green, which was just off the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The presence of the highway likely meant more people. Beyond that were the Appalachians. He didn’t know what he’d find there, but the first order of business would be protecting the Blazer.

  Fuel would eventually be a problem. There was a five-gallon gas can in the back, but it was empty. Vincenzo figured that out when he found a Flo & Go siphon wrapped up in a towel. Transferring fuel from dead vehicles at five gallons a pop would take a while, given that the Blazer had at least a thirty-gallon tank. But he figured if he kept topping it off every so often, then he’d be good to go.

  Vincenzo knew how to operate both of Mr. Scott’s firearms, but he needed some practical experience. He stood the two empty cans on a nearby fence. He used the Springfield XDm first and managed to take down one can at about twenty yards with his third shot. The .45 felt good in his hand, not as snappy as the Beretta, though the sound was something that he’d have to get used to. The second can went down with the first shot from the M1A, and he had backed up to well over seventy yards for that. The rifle was dialed in perfectly, and while it had some kick, he was confident that he could put it to use if necessary.

  After his impromptu target practice, he figured it was time to leave. Someone might come looking, and he didn’t want to be found. He hopped back in the Blazer.

  25

  Vincenzo sped through the few towns he came across without stopping, despite the attempts of some people to convince him to do just that. One individual even shot at him, but the guy had a shotgun, and by the time he’d pulled the trigger, Vincenzo was rolling out of range. He pulled over a few minutes later and checked out the Blazer, heart hammering in his chest, M1A at the ready. There was nothing, not even scratched primer or chipped glass. Well, at least I know for sure how badly people are going to want it.

  He had traveled over one hundred miles since finding the Blazer, which while
encouraging enough on the surface, was a bit dismal when he considered it at length. His route avoided the interstate, and a good number of the roads he took weren’t the most direct. Plus, there were more travelers out on the road, headed in both directions. A lot of them looked at the Blazer as it sped past with expressions that ranged from shocked to outraged.

  As the gas gauge dropped to below the half-full mark, he realized the Blazer’s previous owner hadn’t just restored the engine but had dropped in a small block V-8 with a great deal more horsepower. Vincenzo had been pushing the truck, so his lead foot was probably more to blame. At any rate, he needed to think about taking on some fuel. His original plan had been to find a place to hole up and get fuel under the cover of night. Even though there were more travelers on the road, there were still wide expanses where not a person was to be seen. And while obtaining fuel at night could be less risky, it also meant he had to work without any light and without practicing first.

  When he happened upon a late-model F-150 on the side of the road and no one in sight, he pulled in front of the disabled pickup and killed the Blazer’s engine. He slung the M1A and hustled around to the back to pull out the gas can and siphon. Beside the abandoned pickup, he unscrewed the fuel cap and let it hang on the plastic dongle while he set up the siphon. After inserting the hose into the fuel tank, he placed the nozzle of the handle with the squeeze pump into the gas can, and pumped the lever. It was almost like filling up at a gas station. Aided by gravity, the fuel flowed out of the F-150’s tank and into the gas can. When the can was almost full, he stopped the flow then carried the gas can back to the Blazer. He screwed a separate black plastic nozzle onto the can then stuck that into the truck’s fuel fill. The gasoline poured into the Blazer’s tank with a loud chugging noise. Once the gas can was empty, Vincenzo returned to the F-150 for another load. He took care to ensure the siphon’s hose wasn’t near the bottom of the Ford’s tank in case water condensation had formed.