Times What They Are

by D. L. Barnhart

  Ray left Main Street beyond the Sprain Brook Parkway. The situation improved little on the secondary roads as drivers clogged them, too, in vain attempts to reach blocked highways. Ray snaked a mile through the maze and reached the North County Trailway, a paved rail trail paralleling the Saw Mill and Taconic State Parkways.

  Free of vehicle traffic, Ray put away the tire iron and picked up his pace. He spotted two bikers half a mile ahead. He gained on them steadily as he kept an eye on the halted traffic on the parkway. There, too, drivers abandoned vehicles and marched up the highway.

  The bicyclists ahead increased their speed. Ray followed, in and out of clustered trees, closing on the duo more slowly. He saw shortly the pair was a man and a woman. He debated whether to fall in with them. There was some safety in numbers, but also less speed.

  Ray sped wide around three walkers, middle aged men in street clothes who preferred the trail to the highway, though neither route would get them to safety. The bikers ahead entered a stand of trees and suddenly went down. Ray skidded to a stop.

  Rocks flew. Men rushed from both sides of the trail and pulled the couple from their bikes. A fist fight followed between attackers before two men rode away on the stolen bikes. The woman scrambled to her feet and chased after them. The man, much slower, limped in her trail. Ray counted six men remaining. And they were eyeing him.

  To the right of the trees, a low mesh fence separated him from the gridlocked parkway. To the left were patchy trees and scrub. Beyond them, telephone poles marked a possible road. Ray couldn’t determine if a fence blocked that side as well. The men spread out, sensing he would attempt an end run and closing off the room to do so.

  Ray pedaled fast down the path straight at their center. The men closed ranks to stop him. At forty feet, he cut sharply left. A rock hit his leg. Another struck his shoulder. He scooted around a tree and pumped hard for the shelter of a hillock. A bottle nicked the back of his head. He jerked left. The front tire caught a bush and he dumped.

  Ray came off the bike and rolled to a crouch. A young man ran at him, trim, dressed in khakis and a light coat. He carried a stout branch and had five men somewhere behind him. Ray drew the Beretta. The man took a step and made to swing the improvised club. Ray shot him.

  The man dropped the branch and clutched his stomach. He staggered sideways and fell to his knees as two more men appeared. Ray pointed the gun at the new arrivals.

  “Back off, unless you want to join him.”

  The men eased away. Ray righted the bike and checked for damage, then he walked it to the pavement. He kept his eye on the men as they regrouped near the trail, leaving the wounded man to die where he fell.

  Ray mounted up and pedaled the short distance to the former bikers. He stopped short, the gun still out. The woman was tall with copper hair and high cheek bones set below deep green eyes. Her friend, limping badly, could have been her father.

  “I’d help if I could,” Ray said.

  The man nodded. The woman gave him a wan smile. With the bikes they had a slight chance to escape the lethal zone, as the TV men called it. Now, they had none. Ray reached in his pack and tossed the man a bottle of water, the woman a Cliff bar. They thanked him and he rode on.

  Ray caught up with the stolen-bike-men as they rested a bit less than two miles north. He had figured they’d be long gone, but they obviously were not experienced riders. He glided to a stop and leveled the gun on the larger of the two men.

  “Lay the bikes down and move on, now.”

  “What are you going to do with three bikes?” The smaller man said.

  Ray swung the gun to him. “Count of five for you to be climbing that fence.”

  The men raced for the highway. Ray had the bikes, but no way to return them. Waiting for the couple was out of the question. It would be dark soon. They might not even continue on the trail. He watched the men climb the fence as he walked the bikes south. He stashed one in the first stand of trees he encountered, then rode his and guided the one beside him. One of the two would have to collect the other bike and bring it back.

  The couple sat on a log and the woman jumped to her feet at his approach. Ray handed the bike off and the man stood, in obvious pain as he moved slowly toward the woman.

  “The other one’s in the trees a ways down. You’ll have to ferry it back.”

  The man shook his head. “You’re better at this than me. Will you see Cheryl gets to Chappaqua? She has relations there. I’m sure they’ll put you up, too.”

  “It’s not safe there either. I got your bike. You can do what you want with it.”

  “Please.”

  “I’m not headed that way.” Ray turned his bike around.

  “Mister, she can make it with a little help. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Ray shook his head. “You’re asking for a whole lot more than that.”

  “Perhaps I am. But it’s the only thing left I can do for her.”

  Ray looked to Cheryl. “Keep up and I’ll show you where the other bike is.”

  Ray pushed off north. The man and woman traded a few words, then Cheryl jumped on the bike and pedaled after him. They passed small groups of walkers and gave them a wide berth. He reached the trees where he’d stashed the bike and stopped.

  “It’s in there.” Ray pointed to where he’d left it.

  Cheryl stepped behind the tree and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry,” Ray said. “I couldn’t handle three.”

  The woman raised her phone as she swung her leg over the bike. She spoke for only a few seconds. “My grandfather knows he’s not going to make it to Chappaqua, bike or no bike. He thinks he broke his ankle in the fall.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ray repeated, lost for better words. Cheryl’s choice was a hard one. Ray didn’t want to push her, but he didn’t have time to waste, either.

  “I have to get moving.” Ray eyed two men on the trail a hundred feet behind them and walking briskly. They wore suits with loosened ties. Businessmen in a normal world.

  “I’d still like to ride with you.”

  Ray wished he’d never stopped to talk. “I’m not going to Chappaqua. I can put you on the road within a few miles. That’s the best I can do.”

  She hopped on the bike. The men, fifty feet away, broke into a run.

  * * *

  Ray pedaled hard. Cheryl kept pace without conversation. He stopped in Pleasantville and pointed at the road to Chappaqua.

  “It’s only a few more miles. Will you please ride with me?” Cheryl withdrew three hundred dollars from a fanny pack and handed it to him.

  “There won’t be anyone there.”

  “Then what do you suggest I do? Lie in the road and wait to die?”

  No. He just wished she’d go on, but he knew she wouldn’t. Ray started pedaling. “Let’s move.”

  * * *

  They entered Chappaqua and Ray followed Cheryl through a series of turns ending at a two story stone house in a well spaced neighborhood. They parked the bikes and walked up the steps to the front door. It was full dark and getting colder. There were no lights in the house.

  Cheryl knocked and waited.

  “Did you tell them you were coming?” Ray asked.

  “I couldn’t get through.”

  She pushed the bell and knocked louder.

  “Look. They’re not here. I can open the door if you want to spend the night. Maybe they’ll come back.”

  “What are you going to do?” She had her phone out and pressed buttons.

  “Continue my ride. I’ve a lot of time to make up.”

  “Do you have a plan besides riding until you drop?”

  “Sort of. Might not be any better than yours, though.”

  “Is there room for me?”

  “Only if you keep up.”

  A male voice came through the phone.

  “Cara’s not home,” Cheryl said. “I’m going on.” There was a brief si
lence, then, “Yes, with him.”

  Ray was already on his bike and rolling down the driveway. Cheryl quickly caught up. They pushed hard to the Taconic Parkway, entering at Millwood. The northbound lanes were stopped, vehicles in every spot you could squeeze one, many abandoned. Traffic inched north in the former southbound lanes, barely keeping pace with those on foot. Ray crossed the road and picked a path through the obstacles. Cheryl stayed tight behind.

  On an uphill curve, a man lunged at Ray from between cars. Ray backed him off with a wild swing of the tire iron. A second man stopped Cheryl and struggled to pull her from the bike. Ray smacked the man’s head and shoved him away. Two more men emerged from the shadows. Ray held the iron high and they retreated.

  He handed Cheryl the tire iron and pulled the Beretta. They remounted the bikes and continued north. Ray waved the gun four times at men who drew too close, but he didn’t fire it. He was thankful for the settling cold that kept people in their cars and made bicycling no longer appear a viable escape mode.

  The back roads were clear on the final stretch to the lake. They rode silently and very fast. Ray made the turn onto his sister’s street, braked, and swung into her driveway. He jumped off the bike and walked it behind the garage. They had used two hours to cover seventeen miles.

  “Is this your house?”

  “My sister’s.”

  “There’s no one here, either.”

  “She’s in the city.”

  “Oh.” Cheryl looked at Ray. “What do we do now?”

  “We go inside.” Ray kicked the back door and it popped open. He put on lights, led Cheryl inside, and parked her in front of the TV.

  “Check the news. See what’s going on while I get our ride together.”

  Ray stepped to the garage and removed a tarp from the Honda. The bike was a dual use model with a large fuel tank—suitable for trail or street and with enough seat space for two, but barely. The gas and oil had been drained and the battery removed. He searched the cabinets and shelves for what he needed and set to work.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ray returned to the den. On the television, a graphic showed the leading edge of the cloud entering New York, forty miles away. Cheryl stepped from the bathroom holding the phone. Her eyes were red.

  “Did they say anything about the radiation levels?” Ray asked.

  “Sensors across New Jersey showed lethal levels for anyone exposed. They put on a lame expert who said the bomb combinations were incredibly radioactive and created a fallout zone like a perfect storm. He said to get underground or get out of its way, like this was just a weather event.”

  Ray had heard most of that, earlier. He shut off the TV and walked to the master bedroom, returning with a key and warmer outerwear for Cheryl.

  “You’ll need these.”

  She looked doubtful at the heavy jacket. “Where are we going?”

  “On a motorcycle. It’s nineteen out right now, and the wind chill’s going to be a whole lot colder on the bike.”

  “Okaaay.” She pulled on the insulated pants and held the jacket. “I made sandwiches. Figured you might be hungry.”

  The sandwiches were on the kitchen counter next to water glasses. Ray smiled at Cheryl and thanked her. They stuffed down the food, then he led her to the garage. The bike sat ready to go, a sleeping bag wrapped in the tarp bungeed to the back. He handed Cheryl a helmet and face shield. He donned a ski mask beneath his. He had only one, and he needed it to ride. Cheryl slipped on the backpack without being asked.

  Ray cranked the engine and it caught on the third try. He wheeled the bike outside, shut the garage door, and they climbed on. Cheryl hugged him tight. He liked the feel of it as he eased down the drive.

  Ray covered a few quick miles on country roads before crossing over a stalled I-84 and being forced west to join Route 9 near Fishkill. From there, he weaved a path north, sometimes compelled to walk the bike around masses of stopped cars, more often able to scoot through yards or small gaps between vehicles. He avoided Poughkeepsie altogether on side roads. When he found Route 9 again on the north side, traffic was stop and go, but moving. He roared past vehicles using a narrow shoulder on the right, making a few miles, thankful for the more disciplined flow.

  Ahead, two men jumped from the bed of a stopped pickup and blocked his path. Ray cut down a steep embankment and U-turned. He goosed the bike south a quarter mile, then slipped through a gap in the vehicles and crossed the road, swinging north on the far left—all lanes now filled by evacuees. One of the men crossed as well and stepped into the narrow space ahead. Ray yelled for Cheryl to hold tight, then he snapped the throttle open, roaring straight at him. The man jumped clear, but managed an off balance punch that grazed Ray’s shoulder.

  Ray slowed a hundred yards on and turned off the headlight, hoping to avoid unneeded attention. He stayed left and tried to cross the Hudson at Kingston. The bridge was jammed tight. Fifteen miles north, they got across at Catskill between slowly moving vehicles on the Rip Van Winkle Bridge.

  On the west side of the river, the secondary roads opened up. Ray tore down a winding highway, passed vehicles on corners, and raced to stay clear of the death cloud that was certainly almost upon them. Cheryl clung to him as though velcroed, shifting her scant weight expertly through the corners.

  Ray finally slowed as they entered Oneonta, seventy miles west of the river, and stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts. They stood tight packed against a wall, warmed a little, and caught news from a radio before heading down the interstate to Binghamton. They found gas there and again shook off the cold, but there were no vacant rooms to be had. They rode west on Route 17, signs at each exit stating the hotels were full.

  They stopped after midnight at a rest area outside Corning. Ray chained the motorcycle to a light pole and hauled everything with them. Inside, dozens of people were spread on the floor. Ray and Cheryl settled into a spot outside the women’s room. They put the pack and the helmets between them and used the sleeping bag and tarp as blankets.

  Chapter 5

  Karla watched Dolores Hart address the nation. She was the second person that day to claim the presidency. The first was Steve Fontaine, a congressman from Tennessee. He said that as the defacto Speaker of the House, he was next in line. His reasoning seemed lacking to Karla since his election was by his and one other representative’s vote. Then the assertions on behalf of Dolores Hart weren’t any better. She had never been elected to any office.

  The media favored Dolores Hart. Her address came from a secure government facility, and she had the presidential seal as a backdrop. The network announcer said she had taken the oath of office from a federal judge. Steve Fontaine had spoken from a hotel in Memphis. There was no mention of any oath. He had little to say that hadn’t come from the same news broadcasts Karla had seen.

  Dolores was into her second speech of the day. Karla had missed the first one, but she now listened intently.

  “Military intelligence has traced the origin of the bombs detonated in Washington and Philadelphia to an alliance between Iran and North Korea. This cowardly act will not go unpunished. As I speak, a military response involving both conventional and nuclear weapons is underway. This decision was a difficult one. Many innocent people will die, just as has happened here. We did not pick this fight, but we will not run from it either. It is my duty, as President of this great nation, to assure that another such attack is not possible. To that end, our forces will not stop until all nuclear capabilities in the aggressor nations have been destroyed and their leaders have been captured or killed. I would prefer congress to approve these actions. That is not possible under these conditions. Our enemies have created this situation. We must not let them use it to advantage.”

  Dolores took a drink of water. “Until we are successful, the possibility of further attacks on the United States exist. We hope this does not happen, but we must be prepared. The price of liberty is often dear. I will be back on the air for update
s as the need requires.”

  Dolores walked off the dais to applause. A few moments later, a general came on the screen and announced that nuclear weapons had hit our enemies and that the attacks would continue.

  Karla shook her head slowly. North Korea and Iran were vocal foes of the US, but neither country had been previously thought to possess such powerful weapons. Even if they had managed to produce them, how had they transported very large nuclear devices to the US undetected? And if either country had somehow carried out the attacks, Karla couldn’t imagine why they wouldn’t have claimed credit. Delores Hart’s explanation simply didn’t make sense.

  Chapter 6

  A nudge woke Ray before dawn. The rest area floor where he and Cheryl lay was now occupied nearly wall to wall.

  “How do we get out of here?” Cheryl asked. “People are still coming in.”

  “A better question is where do we go.”

  “A hotel room would be really nice. How long do you think until we can go home?”

  Ray shook his head. “Have you got any relations, out of the City?”

  “An uncle in LA.”

  “No one closer?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know where any of them are now.”

  “Can’t you call your sister and ask?”

  “I’ve tried. She texted last night that she was in Brewster. The traffic was horrible. She was headed to Albany, but had no idea when she’d get there. Now she doesn’t answer. My mother doesn’t either.”

  Ray didn’t ask about the grandfather. “Maybe they’re sleeping,” He swept his arm around the room. “Or need to charge their phones. You can try again later.”

  “How about you, anyone?”

  “My brother’s on a ship somewhere in the Pacific.”

  “A cruise?”

  “The Navy. My next best bet is a friend in Tennessee. Haven’t seen him in a couple years, but it’s worth a try. And it’s on the way to California.”