by Justin Bell
Phil turned towards Winnie. “What do you think?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m pretty tired, dad.”
“Max?” Phil asked, turning back towards Jerry and posing the question to his son, who was sitting just behind him.
“I’m cool with it if everyone else is.”
“Are we missing the family meeting?” Greer asked as he pulled up alongside Jerry and Max.
“Thinking of stopping and shacking somewhere for the night,” Phil yelled above the roar of the engines. “We’re all pretty beat.”
Brad scowled but didn’t speak. Part of him expected this. Riding these things for over twenty-four hours straight seemed like quite the stretch, and already they’d been going for almost twelve hours today. It was unreasonable to expect everyone to keep riding straight on through. Still, part of him had been hoping. He’d dared to let himself think of his mom and dad again, after two full days of shutting them from his mind. Talking to Max about them had torn off the scabs and left them raw and exposed and in spite of all of his attempts, he felt the sting of every speck of dirt and every spare snatch of wind. Everything reminded him of them. And every memory of them was a biting sting like the unhealed cut.
Greer glanced back over his shoulder. “Talk to us, Bradley,” he said. “Are you okay with sleeping a night? I know you want to get back to your mom and dad.”
Brad held silent for a moment, chewing on his words. Finally he drew in a breath and steeled his shoulders. “It’s not going to do any of us any good if we wreck before we even get to Missouri,” he said, in spite of everything he was thinking.
Greer looked back over. “It’s a deal. We’re finding a place tonight.”
Phil nodded, then looked back at Jerry. “You seem to know this area pretty well. Any suggestions?”
“Exit for Salina is coming up. I can get us around it through a few back roads. It’s a decent-sized town, but not quite city level yet, I’m betting we can find some shut-down stores there that we could hang out in. And it may just be far enough off of I-70 to buy us some space and time.”
Phil nodded. “Lead the way,” he said, and Jerry swung himself and Max to the front of the line, easing on the throttle. Winnie let Phil and Greer slide in ahead of her, since she was pulling the trailer, and she fell in behind the crowd, bringing up the rear. Greer seemed to realize she was last in line, and slowed, coming back next to her so he could keep an eye on her progress.
“Doing all right, girl?” he asked.
Winnie nodded. It felt good to be doing something. To be in charge of something. Her dad had put his faith and trust in her, something she wasn’t sure her mom would have done. She was determined to prove she could handle it.
They spent the next hour dipping down the grassy slopes off of Interstate 70, tucking underneath an underpass, rolling over unused train tracks, and even crashing through some underbrush. At one point they had to slow to a near stop and take the four vehicles up a steady incline of rocks, but the vehicles handled fine and after a few scary moments when it seemed like the trailer might capsize, Jerry helped Winnie keep it straight and climb the rest of the way. He’d sat at the controls with Winnie behind him, her arms tucked a bit more tightly around his chest than they probably needed to be. His body was warm against her and he smelled of sour sweat, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It smelled like hard work, like a mission accomplished and a job well done. She’d enjoyed it. Almost relished in it and was a little disappointed when he swung his leg off and handed control back over to her.
“Another ten miles south,” Jerry said to the collected group of ATV drivers. “There are a few rundown convenience stores on the outskirts, I’m betting we can lay claim to one of those for the night. Grab a few hours of sleep, get up and out the door first thing tomorrow.”
Sheltering his eyes, Jerry glanced out into the distance. He’d thought he caught a glint there somewhere. A quick shine of sun on metal, but as he looked more closely, he couldn’t see it. It had been there, but then, just as he’d started to focus, it was gone. Was someone following them?
It seemed as if it took far less than ten miles. On their left as they approached, an old strip mall stood, squat and wide, two large anchor stores blank slabs with unmarked signs, long since closing up their shutters. Somewhat separate from the dead strip mall was a onetime gas station, but the signs were dim and only the dried bones of gas pumps remained, showing for sure that the attached convenience store was nothing more than a dried out husk of what once was. Jerry eased the ATV down behind the gas station where a four-bay car wash sat, and they slid the Hondas in there, tucking them in and out of sight. Phil made his way to the box trailer and unlatched the rear door, swinging it open. Angel nodded towards him and gestured a thumbs up that Rhonda was doing okay, and her husband helped her from the trailer, gingerly moving her left arm and navigating her way down out of the wooden box with wheels.
“How are you feeling, mom?” Max asked, coming up on Phil’s left.
“I’m okay, honey,” she replied.
Winnie was to Phil’s right, and she smiled at her mother, and Rhonda returned the gesture.
“Don’t worry, sis, I’m fine, too,” Max prodded Winnie, giving her a light tap on the arm.
“You’re too stubborn to get hurt,” Winnie shot back.
“Not that you’d notice anyway with your gaga eyes all over Jerry,” Max whispered.
“Shut! Up!” Winnie hissed back under her breath, turning towards him and shaking a fist. Her cheeks flushed and she couldn’t help but crack a smirk. Max chuckled.
“Really?” Brad asked, coming up behind Max. “You got a thing for soldier boy?”
“Quiet, both of you. Pain in the butts!” She turned and stormed off while Max and Brad looked at each other and giggled, almost as if discovering some particularly funny graffiti in the boy’s bathroom. Almost as if they weren’t trying to escape radioactive death by sleeping in an abandoned convenience store. Rhonda couldn’t help but give a slight smile as well, thinking to herself that the normalcy of some sibling bickering was a welcome sight amidst the chaos.
“Place looks secure,” Jerry said, coming around the other side. His M4 Carbine was slung over his left shoulder, and he was walking without any indication that he’d taken a bullet to the chest fourteen hours prior.
“Rotate watch like we did before?” Greer asked.
Jerry nodded. “Yep. We’ll cut you some slack, though, you never did get relieved last time around.”
“I won’t argue,” Greer said.
“Good.” He turned towards Max and Brad. “Hey, kids, how about you grab the duffel and start getting gear unpacked? We’re going to get set up inside and see how we can make this work.”
Brad and Max nodded, heading off to the silver trailer. As they reached the edge, Max halted for a moment, his ear pointing out northwards back towards I-70.
“You hear that?” he asked, his entire body locked completely still as he listened intently. There was a slight rustle in the nearby trees and a sign over a nearby store creaked and groaned softly as it swung on rusted metal chains. Those sounds were not what drew his attention, though. It was something else entirely.
“Hear what?” Brad asked, his own heart ramrodding in his chest.
Max stood there silent for a moment. “Motorcycles,” he whispered. “I think I hear motorcycles.”
***
“Grab the bag!” Max shouted, pointing towards the duffel right at the edge of the opened box trailer. Brad was half a step ahead of him, looping his arm inside the canvas strap and hoisting the large, heavy sack over his narrow shoulder. Max stared at his open hand, loose bullets swimming around over his fingers. He thumbed the bullets into empty chambers in his revolver, and stuffed the remaining rounds in one pocket, reminding himself to make sure to keep his weapon loaded. He loved this revolver, but he didn’t love its limited capacity for ammunition.
Engines grew louder, coming from the north. Not just motorcycl
es, but the deep, throaty roars of larger vehicles, and Max thought they sounded like trucks. He let Brad run past him and shoved his hand in his pocket, closing his fingers around the revolver he had swiped from the guy in cold storage so many hours ago. It still felt cool and reassuring against his skin, in spite of his growing anticipation of the coming storm.
Up ahead he could see Winnie helping Rhonda around the corner of the convenience store, propping her up with a bent arm around the small of her back, heading towards what looked like the rest rooms. Jerry and Greer stood by the front door engaged in conversation with Phil and Angel checking an employee door to see if they could get access to the building. Brad was a short distance ahead of him, and the engines ramped up behind him. Everything was swirling in his head as he ran, a tornado of possible outcomes. In his mind he saw himself whipping around, weapon raised, defending the team against the oncoming attackers, if that’s what they were. He’d stand in the parking lot, the revolver clutched in a two-handed grip, blasting away, knocking motorcycle riders from their bikes, popping the tires in oncoming trucks and defending everyone.
Part of him knew that’s not how this would work. This wasn’t a movie, and just because he’d shot a guy once didn’t mean he could do it again, and it certainly didn’t mean he was some kind of maverick pistol sharpshooter, picking off motorcycle riders as they screamed past.
“Company’s coming!” Brad screamed as he reached Greer and Jerry, tossing the canvas bag at their feet.
Jerry swung around, lunging towards where his M4 was resting on the side of the building. He’d declined to put it in the bag with the rest of the weapons, electing instead to keep it as close to him as possible. He lifted the semi-automatic from its spot on the wall and popped out the magazine, checking the ammo, then slammed it back in place.
“Who’s coming?” he shouted, taking a few steps towards the near corner of the building.
“Motorcycles and trucks!” Max screamed as he ran towards them. “I can hear them!”
Jeremiah nodded. “I hear ’em too, kid,” he said, then turned his head over his shoulder. “Get ready, we’re about to have friends over for dinner!”
Even as he said this, a motorcycle crested the hill of the road leading past the convenience store, its shadow blurring against the pale sky of the setting sun, a rippling heat from the pavement distorting the vague shape as it came up over the top and began drifting down towards them. Even as it roared forward, two more bikes appeared just behind, followed by a pickup truck and a panel van, a convoy of mixed vehicles, the engines now roaring a deafening bellow, drowning out all surrounding noise.
“Are they the Demon Dogs?” Greer yelled to Jerry, pulling a fresh mag from the duffel and slamming it home into the handle of his Glock.
“No idea,” he replied, “but I’m not sure I want to wait to find out!” Brad scrambled away behind him, stumbling towards the back corner of the store.
“Get me a weapon!” Rhonda shouted to Winnie.
“No, mom!” Winnie replied. “You can barely walk, you’re in no shape to shoot a gun!”
The lead motorcycle rider bore down on them and Jerry still wasn’t sure where things were headed, but the rider moved towards his left, reaching across his body and a sawed-off double barreled shotgun was in his hand, sliding free of a leather sheath attached to the side of the bike.
“Gun!” Jerry screamed and darted left as the shotgun roared, sending buckshot clanging off the dead gas pumps. The ex-Army combat engineer lurched forward, ducking down behind the pumps, then swept up with his carbine and punched three shots at the bike rider. All shots missed as the man turned towards him while driving and fired again. Jerry dove again, avoiding another barrage of shot. Greer came up on his left, his pistol clutched in two hands, firing at the retreating form of the cycle.
Chattering submachine gun fire rolled over the rough streets and Greer pulled back towards the wall of the store as sparks danced along the surface of the pumps and smashed chunks of brick from the wall to his right. Phil came around the corner with his own pistol firing but couldn’t draw down on the rider.
“Down down down!” Jerry shouted as more guns exploded, punching holes along the surface of the wall, spanging metal on metal against the pumps and the blank sign on the roof of the squat building. Max stumbled forward as bullets pegged the surrounding asphalt, then came up and fired his stolen pistol a few times, hitting nothing.
Chaos erupted all around them with rapid whacks of gun fire, both sub-machine guns and shotguns, with scattered pistols mixed within. Sparks riddled the side of the building, metal dented and popped as the Frasers and their friends scrambled for any cover they could.
Tires screeched and as Phil came back up from cover, he saw the panel van shuddering to a trembling halt in the middle of the road, back end swinging around into a strange diagonal. The side door slid open, slamming with a metallic crash and vomiting out three men dressed in leather coats and black jeans, wearing thickly soled combat boots and bike helmets. He couldn’t even make out their faces as one of them came around with a Kalashnikov automatic rifle, bent banana clip and wood grain finish, the weapon leaping in his tight grasp as staccato sparks burst from the narrow barrel.
Angel crawled past Phil on the ground as bullets ricocheted off the gas pumps, and he lurched forward, burying his hands in the duffel bag, retrieving the SIG 522. Coming up onto his knees he directed fire at the van, squeezing off a series of single shots, sending bright sparks along the rusted metal hide of the old school van, the man with the automatic ducking away. The other two men ran towards the corner of the building as the pickup truck screeched to a halt behind the van, the driver reaching out with a squat Scorpion EVO 3 sub-machine gun and firing away. In a single hand grip, with the stock folded down, the weapon jolted as it fired, spraying .40 caliber rounds in frenetic arcs throughout the front of the store and over the dead pumps. Angel ducked his head down, but Jerry swung up and around, resting his arm, cradling the M4 on top of the pump and fired swift successive shots towards the truck. Rounds puckered the metal skin of the pickup, making the driver lunge back inside the cab as sparks drilled divots in the metal skin of the vehicle.
“No, no, no!” Jerry heard the frantic screaming, and he twisted, seeing Phil pushing himself around the brick covered corner of the abandoned convenience store. He was looking out towards the other corner, his pistol raised that direction but not firing. Jerry followed his glare towards the other side of the building, and drew in a sharp, startled breath.
The two men who had darted from the van had enveloped Rhonda and Winnie in their leather-clad arms and were dragging them from their place on the opposite side of the store.
“Stop!” Jerry yelled, swiveling his waist and bringing the M4 around. There was a tangle of arms and legs as the two women thrashed in the clutches of the helmeted men who dragged them across the asphalt parking lot. Jerry fired twice, going wide right on purpose to avoid hitting either of the females, and pounded the side of the van with twin shots of 5.56 millimeter. Moving around the pump, he darted towards them, angling out into the street to try to get a better angle. Gunfire echoed from the truck behind the van and from the motorcycles, stitching bullets across the cracked pavement of the parking lot and sending him sprawling sideways, tumbling over the ground, desperate to avoid a deadly shot.
“Mom! Winnie!” Max yelled from behind Jerry. Gunshots thundered over the soldier’s head and he turned back to look at the boy who had a revolver in his hand. As far as he could tell, no rounds were getting close to their intended target, and after three shots, the trigger clicked back on an empty chamber, but that didn’t stop him from charging forward towards the truck and van, screaming.
“Give them back, give them back, give them back!” he yelled as he dashed towards the vehicles.
“Max, don’t!” screamed Phil from the wall of the store and turned to run out into the road. Jeremiah was closer and quicker, scrambling to his feet, leaping and
tackling Max to the pavement just as return gunfire screamed through the air, spattering chunks of broken asphalt out behind them.
“Get off of me!” Max screamed, twisting around and smacking at Jerry. Up ahead the van door slammed shut and tires screeched on pavement, Jeremiah watching the vehicles with open, stunned eyes. Phil emptied the rest of his pistol harmlessly on the side of the van as sporadic fire barreled from the window of the pickup. Greer ran forward, his Glock barking and shattering the rear window of the pickup, but it lurched forward, following the van off into the darkness. In moments, the world around them was silent, the roaring engines fading into the night, with nothing left but the quiet, desperate breathing of the stunned survivors.
“What happened? What did they do with them? Where did they go!” Phil wandered out into the street, his arm slack, the pistol dangling from his fist like a useless limb.
“Mom?” Max asked picking himself up and walking forward, staring off into the darkness. “Winnie?”
“Why’d they do that?” Greer asked, turning towards Jerry who was joining the other two in the middle of the street.
“I’d heard stories…they kidnap women and kids, use them for slave labor. Drug production plants. I wasn’t sure it was true.”
“Guess it was,” Angel muttered, coming up behind them.
Max dropped to his knees in the road, staring out into the distance where the vehicles had disappeared, the engines nothing more than quiet rumbles, lower than a thunderstorm two states over.
“Mom? Winnie?” he whispered, then glanced around in a half trance as Greer and Phil came up behind him. Phil knelt down, wrapping his arm around his son’s shoulders, squeezing him.
“We’ll find them, buddy,” he said quietly, hoping he sounded more reassured than he felt.
Max looked back at him after scanning the street one more time. His eyes tilted and looked curious. “Where’s Brad?”
