Downward Cycle

by JK Franks

  Exhausted, her mind did not register the two new men on the bank looking in her direction. She stumbled over a root on the river bottom just as she got to the tree she hoped to climb. Kaylie heard a reaction from the shore; one of them had noticed. She turned and scanned the bank fifty yards away. She could now see them, pointing guns into the dark swamp. If they started spraying bullets, she would surely be hit. Again she froze, panic rising in her, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Slowly and with tremendous effort she lifted the assault rifle and shakily began to take aim. The front of the barrel was wavering and she had to calm herself. Her sights centered on the one with the hoodie.

  She barely noticed as a dark gloved hand reached around her neck from behind and clamped over her mouth. The scream of panic was silenced as her body went completely limp. Too late, she realized she had been found.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  In the weeks since the blast, Scott had taken to riding his bike more and more. Partially because of the limited fuel supply but mostly because he needed time to think and plan, and to see what was going on out in the county. The roads here had stayed relatively safe thanks to Sheriff Warren and his deputies. The few times he had seen real problems were when he ventured too far from home and into adjacent counties. There, he saw highwaymen blocking roads, and the varied and unpleasant remnants of encounters between adversaries. On one trip by a ritzy subdivision, he’d seen bodies hanging from the tree limbs in several of the neatly manicured yards. He knew the isolation of the area around Harris Springs was helping to stave off events like these, but he wondered how long that could last.

  For a while, the roads themselves had been clogged with people. Everyone seemed to be hauling crap, walking in various directions, hoping that somewhere, anywhere, had it better than where they’d come from. The council had worried that Harris Springs might become a mecca for the wandering hoards if news of their work or supplies got out. Needless to say, the bridges were staying up more often than not these days. The irregular electricity had flickered on rarely in the last few weeks and all phone service was now gone. No one had illusions anymore of being rescued.

  Scott’s current problem had been more mundane. Figuring out how to help feed people had led the council to another pressing problem. That food that everyone ate had a habit of coming back out the other end. How the fuck do we deal with all this shit? he was wondering as he rode fast down the empty road.

  Bartos had told him that even before the CME, nearly twenty million Americans got sick every year from tainted water. The town of Harris Springs essentially sat on a large sandbar surrounded by ocean, canal and bayou. The only real fresh water supply had been the spring that the town was named for. Long ago, it had been capped by the city water treatment facility. The aquifer was known to be close to the surface and very susceptible to pollution. In an effort to address the issue, they had dug latrines for the townsfolk to use, but they were woefully insufficient for waste disposal, and over time, dysentery, typhoid, cholera and all manner of other biological nasties could wipe out the town just as efficiently as armed gangs or bomb blasts.

  Clean water was a more urgent human need than anything other than air to breathe. It was also one of the most fragile. They simply didn’t have the chemicals to test the water supply, much less treat it to kill off pathogens. Bartos had proposed using lime to help neutralize the waste, but they didn’t have enough to do that either, and it mainly helped reduce the smell and didn't decompose the waste. The farmers had suggested composting the solids like they did with the manure from their cattle and pigs. Unfortunately, Kaylie had quickly pointed out that you cannot do the same with human waste. Not safely at least.

  This was a nasty problem, but one they couldn’t ignore. They had already instructed people not to use the toilets in their houses and public buildings unless they had their own septic tank. They had also set-up numerous portable toilets around the town that were serviced regularly by being taken inland many miles, away from all water sources, and dumped in what had been a county-maintained clay pit. Besides law enforcement, this was one of the highest priority activities for the community volunteers. Scott was worried that it used too much fuel and manpower to service the units. They would also be too cold to use in winter. When that happened, would people take the effort to go to the public toilet, or just go in their yards, or even worse, in their houses somewhere?

  Along with everything else they had to deal with had been that damnable asshole, Ronald. He wanted to argue against everything the council was doing. He accused them of Gestapo tactics, trampling human rights, racism… anything that could be said to incite a crowd. While the tactic was obvious, Scott admitted the man was good at it. He could use just enough facts amongst the twisted emotional manipulation to make even the ridiculous sound plausible. Lately, he had been refusing to use the public latrines and instead repeatedly using the closed restrooms at city hall.

  Preacher Jack had warned Scott about the guy, but Scott had initially found him to be only an inconvenience. That changed when the jerk tried muscling his way onto the council, and later that same week they found him in the former mayor’s office. Bartos had pulled a gun on the slimy politician, and Scott had been ready to be rid of him right there as well. The guy had become more than just a thorn in their side; he was becoming a real problem, and Scott had no tolerance for problems right now. If he was unwilling to use the public toilets, let him shit in his bathtub at home until he got sick and died. The red-faced, blustering fool was a piss-ant, as Scott’s grandmother would have said. They had banished him from the very building that bore his family name. Scott had seen the rage in his face as he walked away. Jack said he would handle him, but Scott wasn’t sure it would keep him out of trouble. He pedaled furiously trying to outpace the flood of problems rushing through his head.

  Scott was always alert on his rides but certainly had not expected the trio of gunmen blocking the road ahead as he had topped the hill. His initial instinct was that they were some of the sheriff’s deputies, but the shot that whizzed a few inches by his head let him know that he was clearly incorrect. As he hastily turned the bike in the opposite direction, he caught sight of a truck up in the woods near the gunmen. A puff of asphalt near his front tire announced a second shot from behind him. He rode back over the crest of the hill and made the descent on the far side in world-class time. His mind was racing, looking for options, solutions. Maybe they won’t come after me, he thought optimistically. A guy on a bike doesn’t have much to offer in the way of resources… not really worth the effort. His hopes vanished when he heard the motor of the old truck crank up and begin to accelerate his way. The throaty headers on the V8 motor rumbled ominously.

  The bike was fast, but he could not outrun a truck. Scott was working on his options as his bike began losing speed up the next hill. He heard another shot and caught a glimpse of the truck only a few hundred yards behind. He looked closely at the crest of the hill, at least fifty yards ahead, and came up with the basics of a plan. He stood up on the pedals and sprinted to the top. His muscles were screaming in agony as he drew in deep gulps of air. Topping the next hill, he built speed for about twenty yards on the down slope before suddenly reversing course again and heading back in the direction of the truck. His foolhardy plan worked as he and the truck crossed paths at the very peak of the hill. The three men in the truck did not have time to react to seeing him, and he slipped by at speed, gaining more on the downhill. Scott heard the brakes lock on the far side of the hill.

  As he sped away, the thought that had struck him as they’d passed fully revealed itself. While he had not recognized any of the men in that brief second, the truck he knew—it was Bartos’ Bronco. He filed that away for processing later. As of now, he wanted to get to a side road before the truck came back over the hill where they could see him again.

  Scott made it to the side road near the bottom of the hill and had to take it at an extreme angle due to his speed. His rear wheel slipped sl
ightly on the loose gravel, giving him a momentary fright. He had just leveled back out and hit speed again when he heard the deep-throated Ford top the hill, chasing after him. As soon as the woods grew thicker, he braked hard, jumped off and pulled the bike into the dense cover. He watched from concealment as the truck sped past the little road without slowing down. He listened until it was nearly inaudible.

  It was likely only a matter of minutes before they came back, and he felt sure they would check this side road out as well. He could not recall another connecting road for several miles in either direction. He took a moment to down some water. The worst was yet to come. He slid his handgun out of the holster, racked a shell into the chamber and checked to make sure the safety was off. The sound of the truck returned, engine quieter as it slowly idled back down the road. Scott ducked down deeper into the woods, hoping he had not left any tracks in the dirt they might notice.

  He kept the Sig Sauer trained on the truck as it slowly crept to the intersection, then turned onto the side road and continued past where Scott was hidden. A black man drove while a Hispanic guy literally rode shotgun, barrel pointed out the window. The third man was no longer in the truck. The driver held a radio to his mouth, and Scott could just make out the words over the rumbling of the slow moving Bronco. “See anything?”

  The response came back loudly. “Nope, lil fuck done vanished.”

  They took the truck down the road farther, and Scott realized they had dropped the third man at the intersection. Scott was trapped, unable to leave in either direction. The man at the intersection watched in all directions, loosely holding an old hunting rifle in the cradle of one arm and a radio with the other hand. The sound of the Bronco diminished as it went around a bend farther down.

  Scott made his decision, took aim, and shot the single gunman in the chest. He was already moving the bike out of the woods, stopping just long enough to pick up the man’s radio and toss the cheap rifle into the woods. He remounted and headed north, mainly because he knew the road was flatter and there were more turnoffs. He barely registered a look at the dead man. His entire chest cavity was a bloody mess. He had shot him in the back and felt no remorse at all.

  He heard a voice on the radio. “Did you shoot? Did you get him?”

  He ignored it and rode on as fast as his tired legs could manage.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  They were working their way to him, he realized with certainty. He was also heading farther and farther away from home. He knew that they would surely kill him if they caught him. The miles slipped by quickly, and although adrenaline flooded his body, fatigue was creeping into his muscles. He had to slow his pace, or he would hit a wall, his muscles would cramp, his energy would be drained and he would have no choice but to stop.

  He’d cut off onto multiple roads and put several miles between him and the guys in the truck, though he was under no illusion that they wouldn’t catch up. Several times he heard the powerful engine and even caught glimpses of the truck on other roads in the distance. The lightweight bike was beginning to feel like a sack of lead. The fatigue was crushing, and Scott knew he was nearing the end of his ability. His muscles ached, and the cramps were nearly constant. Worst of all, he’d stopped sweating. From past experience, he knew this was a bad sign. He lifted his head just in time to see a cloud of dust coming from a side road up ahead, and then he heard the beast of a truck coming his way. Nearing a low point in the road with cow pastures on both sides, he knew he could not get away and saw nowhere to hide.

  Scott was about to give up any hope of getting away when he caught a glint of water coming up off to the side of the road. Looking closer, he noticed a shallow collection pond on the edge where the cattle pasture met the road. More like a stopped-up drainage ditch that the cows had made into a watering hole. Covered with thick green slime, bits of floating manure, and thousands of black flies, it was all Scott could do to crawl under the barbed wire fence, toss his bag up in some dry grass and tuck himself and his bike under the fetid water before the Bronco passed by. The little pond was only about two feet deep and less than a dozen yards wide. He hated the thought of what the water was doing to his bike, not to mention to him. Yep, clean water is definitely a priority now. He eased up on a shoulder so he could hear better and listened as the truck sounds faded in the distance. Quickly, he pulled himself and the Trek out of the vile, muddy mess, recovered his pack and got back to the pavement, heading in the opposite direction. The putrid smell from the foul water seemed to have permeated his entire body.

  The voices on the radio had been pissed upon finding their friend dead. For some odd reason, Scott felt with growing suspicion that the pursuit was personal—almost like they were out looking specifically for him. Why else would they put this much effort into taking down a single guy on a bike? His suspicions were confirmed a half hour later when the recovered radio squawked again.

  “Hey, this is T, you got that dude yet?”

  The reply was mostly inaudible.

  “Goddamnit, motha-fuckas, what in the hell’s you doing? We be drinkin’ the man’s wine, eating his food—we got his girlfriend cornered in the swamp—and you stupid fuckin’ idiots can’t get one guy on a bicycle? We took the Cajun out easy ‘nough, but we don't get paid ‘less bicycle boy tells us where all their shit’s stashed. Hansbrough ain’t gonna be happy if we don’t, and therefore, neither will I. Where the fuck is he?”

  The response sounded scared; the voice was nearly drowned out by the whistling wind and deep rumble of the Bronco’s motor. “Sorry, Tyrell, we see him up ahead, we’ll have him soon.”

  “Well, hurry the fuck up, I got shit to do and places to be. Let me know when it’s done.”

  The expression on Scott's face was grim. These thugs were at his house. They had Kaylie. They’d killed Bartos. More than all that, they were apparently working with that fucking shit-bag, Hansbrough. Scott had expected a play from someone, and Ronald was near the top of his list, but he would never have guessed it would be such an outright and brutal attack. He could hear the truck among the wooded roads behind him. He had been riding for hours to outmaneuver them, but now, he was done running.

  He braked hard to stop the bike and dismounted as he watched the Bronco coming quickly up the road behind him. Scott was exhausted, he was angry, he stank and he was not running any farther. He left the Sig Sauer in the holster and reached behind for his go-bag. Already he could see the gunman hanging out the passenger window leveling the shotgun at him. They both knew he was out of range, but not by much. Just a few more seconds and the crazed looking fuck would start sending lead down the pipe toward Scott.

  The Bronco was less than fifty yards away now and showing no signs of slowing. Scott had not moved. His legs were so tired, he felt he couldn’t move. He needed that truck. He needed it to get back home and help his niece. Scott had his right arm inside his go-bag, which he now let slip to the ground, revealing the H&K subcompact he gripped in his hand. His finger was already pulling the trigger as he swept the windshield with rounds, stitching a line of shots across the driver’s head, which exploded in a bloody pulp, and the chest and head of the passenger. They did get one shot off, but the blast went harmlessly into the floor board of the truck. As the dead driver's foot slipped from the accelerator, the truck stalled and crept slowly to the side of the road.

  Scott heard the radio asking, “Well, ya got him?” Neither of these guys would be responding.

  Scott dragged the bodies out of the truck and dumped them unceremoniously on the side of the road. He took the several cheap weapons and various ammo and knives off of each, the only worth they had in his mind. On some level, Scott registered the fact that he had killed three more men today, but that simple fact was starting to bother him very little. Right now, he had to get back the nearly fifty miles to the cottage. He had to get back to the niece he had promised to protect, now possibly his last surviving family member. He needed to get back in the name of his friend, Bartos, wh
o had done so much for him and the town and he had to end one more person’s life today—Ronald Hansbrough would not last the night. He placed the bike in the back of the Bronco and turned the truck in the direction of Harris Springs.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  The Bronco was a beast of a truck, although the spider-webbed windshield and the blood and brains all over the place were rather unpleasant additions. Scott Montgomery uncharacteristically had no plan. He knew only that he had to get back and help Kaylie. The rage that had been building in him for far too long was demanding to be released. This feeling that had come over him was not like him. He was no soldier; he could not take on an armed gang alone. But what options did he have?

  He was passing back across the county line when, to his relief, he saw help up ahead: the familiar patrol car of the newly sworn-in Sheriff Buck Warren was partially blocking the road.

  Scott saw the figure of the man inside the car, so he slowed down and steered the truck to the side. He knew Buck and his deputies could help even the odds and probably assist him with Hansbrough as well.

  The wind left Scott's lungs as he saw the shattered driver’s side window and saw the sheriff slumped to the side, clearly dead, bullet wounds in his chest and head. The scene shook him. He stopped the truck and climbed out to check on his friend. He knew there was nothing to be done, but he couldn’t just drive on by.