by Joe Nobody
Hugh had just enough fuel to check the three fields. If none met the requirements, they would have to return another day or change the plan.
The first airport was ruled out immediately, the debris of a wrecked aircraft blocking the runway. Perhaps it was the ill fate of one of his fellows, or simply the first reminder of how badly the world had gone to hell, but the crash site sparked muttered speculation from the normally stoic pilot.
“I wonder if he ran out of gas or had mechanical failure,” offered Hugh. “No way to tell, I suppose,” he continued, answering his own question.
The second airfield proved promising. As they approached, it was clear that the single concrete landing strip was void of wreckage. A metal building sat at the end of the runway. There were no cars present in the gravel parking lot.
As Hugh slowly circled, Bishop studied the area. He couldn’t spy a single dwelling, and only one road passed beneath the plane.
“It is definitely isolated,” Bishop reported. “For a bunch of guys trying to avoid people, it looks perfect. For a bunch of guys hoping to steal a good pickup, this doesn’t look like a target rich environment.”
“We had a strong tail wind all the way here,” Hugh offered. “We’ve not used nearly as much fuel as I anticipated we would need. Want to circle around again?”
“Sure. Make a little wider loop if you can.”
Ten minutes later, Bishop lowered the binoculars and shook his head. “There’s nothing down there, which is good and bad. I love the landing strip, but I’m afraid we won’t be able to find transportation.”
“It’s a state park called Petit Jean. That mountain over there is named the same.”
“Petit Jean?”
“Yeah. Legend has it a French woman disguised herself as a boy to follow her lover as he explored this territory back in the 1700s. According to the tale, the lady fell ill and died, so they buried her on that mountain. I visited the park back years ago. Beautiful place.”
Bishop pulled out a map, studying the area with an intense gaze. “Can you head north of here a little? There’s an interstate up that way, and we might find abandoned cars.”
Tapping the fuel gauge, Hugh nodded. “Sure thing.”
A few minutes later, a solid dark line appeared ahead, growing into a four-lane highway stretching into the distance. As expected, a random sprinkling of vehicles lined the edges of the roadway here and there.
“Fly parallel with the asphalt if you can, I want to see if there’s a salvageable ride,” Bishop said.
“No problem. It looks kind of eerie down there, doesn’t it? Do you suppose that people just walked away from their cars?”
Bishop sighed, the landscape below reminding him of those terrible days right after the collapse. “The aerial view brings back a lot of memories of Houston and when everything went downhill. People were desperately trying to get out of the big cities by the millions, probably thinking they could buy gasoline on the way to Uncle Joe’s country home, or hoping a full tank would get them out of the metro area. The highway arteries couldn’t handle that kind of traffic, and gridlock set in. Gas stations began to run out of fuel, and tankers couldn’t get through to resupply. Folks drove as far as they could from the center of town, but eventually the mass exodus turned into a massive parking lot. People didn’t just run out of fuel. They ran out of options.”
Shaking his head, Hugh banked the aircraft and lined up to follow the road so Bishop could scout.
Unlike what he saw of I-10 during the Houston bug-out, the pavement wasn’t solid, wall-to-wall vehicles. There was a semi here, a car there, randomly pulled to the shoulder where the tank had finally emptied. Many vehicles had their doors and hoods open; small pools of broken glass surrounded others, reflecting in the sunlight as the plane banked overhead.
“We’re far enough away from Little Rock that the traffic had thinned out when everything fell apart. My guess is these cars belonged to the people who decided to bug out, but their tanks were only half full. It must have been quite a shock to find out that a pound of gold wouldn’t buy a gallon of gas.”
On cue, the plane passed over an area dense with cars and trucks, the glimmer of windshield glass showing vehicles packed tightly like sardines in a can. “What’s that all about?” Hugh asked, pointing with a nod of his head.
“An exit with gas stations,” Bishop answered. “I’ve seen that before. Everyone pulled off the interstate as the gauge approached empty, waiting in line for fuel trucks that never arrived. The potato chips and candy bars were no doubt devoured in hours. I’d wager violence started shortly afterward. Desperate, hungry people carrying weapons in the glove box were likely to have a short fuse.”
After flying a few more minutes, Bishop said, “Let’s turn around. I saw a few pickup trucks about two or three miles back that might work out. Can you land on the roadway?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Hugh said, “Don’t see why not. The wind is calm, and it looks like there is plenty of space. I’ve only got the fuel to land and takeoff once though.”
Eventually, Bishop spotted a section of road he’d noted on the first pass. “Set it down right there, as close to that truck as you can.”
Five minutes later, the small craft achieved wheels-down, rolling to a stop next to a late-model pickup that was the same brand as Bishop’s own 4-wheel drive back in Alpha.
“Keep your eyes open and the plane ready to go. If you see anybody, yell at me. I’m going to try and get that old girl started.” And with that, Bishop opened the plane’s door and jumped out.
After taking a moment to get the blood circulating through his legs, he moved to the plane’s cargo hold and removed the “looter’s bag,” Cory had packed for him back home. Hefting the heavy duffle, he made for the red truck.
The first thing Bishop noticed was the driver’s side glass had been busted out, but that didn’t surprise him. Touring the roadways and scavenging anything useful out of abandoned cars had probably been a full time occupation for some of the locals. Bishop was counting on the inventory having been exhausted months ago, hoping the desperados had moved on to greener pastures.
Hustling over, his first task was to verify there weren’t any human remains inside. While the driver’s seat was beginning to rot from the window being open to the elements, no other issue presented itself on the interior.
His next priority was the fuel tank. Time and again, he’d seen people spiking gas tanks. A screwdriver or other sharp tool was used to poke a hole in the bottom of the tank in order to drain out any fuel. It was faster and easier than siphoning, but completely destructive, leaving behind a worthless hunk of sheet metal.
Setting down his rifle and bag, he rolled under the truck and smiled when he ascertained the tank was unharmed. No sense in spiking an already empty truck, he mused.
Rolling out from under the vehicle, Bishop pulled over his rifle and began an earnest inspection of the relic. A thick coating of dust and rain-grime covered the surface of what would have otherwise been a nice looking ride.
One tire was low, but still holding air. He smiled at Cory’s insistence that a small hand-operated air pump be included in his heavy kit. Other than that, he couldn’t find any problem on the exterior.
Opening the door, he noticed that the dome lights didn’t shine – a dead battery. Again, this had been anticipated, most of the weight in his looter’s bag being a fully charged spare battery. He popped the hood.
The engine compartment looked untouched. Using a pair of adjustable pliers, he switched to the new battery in a few minutes. Next came the fuel.
Rushing back to the plane, he pulled a five-gallon can from it’s tether in the small cargo area and then began pouring the gas into the tank. He only used a gallon – just in case he couldn’t accomplish the next step.
Soon, it was time for the most difficult part of the salvage – hotwiring the ignition.
Cory had spent almost four hours working with Bishop on the issue. Modern cars
had anti-theft computer chips built into their keys, locking steering columns and hardened ignition switches. It wasn’t going to be easy.
The memory of the mechanic’s words flooded Bishop’s mind. “All the fancy doodads and anti-theft devices must eventually make a connection between the starter motor and the DC circuit. Computer chips, DNA testing or thumbprints, it doesn’t matter. The battery starts the car – period. You need to find that connection and unlock the steering column, and then you’re got a ride.”
Pulling a thick, flathead screwdriver from the bag, Bishop inserted the tool into the keyhole and then gave it a good thwack with the hammer. It took a lot more force than he anticipated, but eventually the plastic and metal gave way.
Before long, he had practically dissembled the steering column in the process of locating the mechanisms to unlock the wheel.
Next, he began the search for the computer chip that controlled the ignition. Cory had shown him several examples of what to look for and where to find it. Four wires exited the black box, and before long, they were snipped.
Bishop looked back at Hugh, finding the pilot scanning the area and being a good sentry. “It’s now or never,” he whispered to himself and then touched the final two wires together.
The engine turned… crank, crank, crank… but didn’t start. Cory had predicted it would take a while for the fuel to make it through the system and up to the engine. “Don’t run the battery down, just crank it three or four turns until it catches.”
Again, crank… crank… crank.
Hugh’s warning broke Bishop’s concentration on the obstinate machine, “We’ve got company!”
Movement drew the frustrated car thief’s attention. Half a mile up the road, men were approaching. Bishop stepped on the truck’s running board and raised his rifle. Using the optic to scan the newcomers, he didn’t like what he saw.
Five or six figures were visible, each carrying a long gun. They were moving quickly and with some degree of caution. There was zero doubt regarding their intended destination.
Too many, judged Bishop. They might be only curious… maybe even friendly… or maybe not.
Keeping a constant visual on the approaching men, he returned to his brief criminal career. On the fifth try, the motor fired, but only for a moment. Still, the progress improved Bishop’s outlook. With the seventh attempt, the engine started, ran for a few moments, and then died.
It kept running the next try. Apparently, the eighth time is a charm, Bishop thought.
After he was sure everything was working, Bishop put the truck in gear and did a quick 100-yard test drive. He spun the wheel hard, returning to pull up close to the plane.
Hustling, he threw his pack into the back and strapped on his chest-rig. An extra set of maps went flying into the cab.
“Okay, we’ve got transportation. I’m going to drive it to that airstrip and spend the night. I’ll see you tomorrow for phase two of the operation. I’ll turn on my radio around noon. Contact me before you try to land,” he instructed Hugh. “Don’t forget about me, and tell Terri and Hunter I love them. Now GO!”
“Good luck,” Hugh replied as he throttled the propeller.
Bishop stepped back, keeping an eye on the approaching locals while the pilot turned the plane around in the median and then began gaining speed as he rolled down the pavement.
A minute later, the red truck followed, Bishop watching the men behind him growing smaller in the rearview mirror.
As he drove west in the eastbound lane, Bishop watched the plane fade until it was nothing but a small speck in the sky. The successful start to the plan, combined with his rebellious driving on the wrong side of the road, left him feeling pretty good about the day.
At one point, he considered moving over to the proper side of the highway, but dismissed it. I may still get to make that trip with Terri to visit England, and this is good practice, he mused.
After five minutes of putting distance between himself and the scene of his crime, he pulled to the shoulder and began to study the map.
As best he could tell, the airport they had flown over was 25 miles south of his current position, a casual Sunday afternoon drive before society had fallen. Now, he would have to navigate a cautious route through unfamiliar territory. The fact that the map wasn’t detailed enough to show every county road was troubling. He was in unfamiliar territory, and unlike Tennessee Williams, he couldn’t count on the kindness of strangers.
He knew to avoid the major roadways, as they would be the most likely points of congregation for any people in the area. Recalling Hugh’s comment about the airfield being part of a state park, he decided to focus on getting in that general vicinity, hoping there might be directional signposts or other helpful landmarks.
Continuing west, he had covered three miles when an overpass appeared ahead. He again stopped, stepping out to scout the area with his rifle optic, but found nothing of consequence. It wasn’t an exit, and he detected no movement.
Avoiding off ramps and their promised blockade of stranded relics was appealing, a hard lesson learned during the bug-out from Houston so many months ago. Images of those starving people, so desperate they used insects to thicken their soup, filled his mind. He shivered at the memory.
On the other hand, taking the truck off-road entailed certain risks. Busting an axle, getting stuck in the sand, or damaging a critical component of the drivetrain would put the mission at extreme risk.
Why is everything twice as difficult as before? he questioned, the query a reoccurring conceptual theme. A man had to be twice as cautious, take twice as much time and worry twice as much to accomplish even the most mundane tasks. When hunting in the mountains, progress was slow because a busted ankle meant death. When sharpening his knife, extra care was mandated – the smallest wound could mean death by infection in a world without antibiotics.
Forcing the melancholy from his mind, he pulled the truck to the shoulder again, dismounting with a rifle. Despite the discomfort of driving while wearing a full load vest, he decided to don it and his body armor – just in case. Sometimes safety overrode bulk and awkwardness.
He had selected a fighting load for this trip - lighter on food and water, heavy on ammo. If things went to plan, he’d only be without resupply for a day, so nourishment wasn’t a primary concern. His chest-rig held eight full magazines of 5.56 NATO rounds, exactly 224 shots for the ACR rifle slung across his chest.
Night vision (or NVD), sidearm, knife, net and a few other essentials rounded out the heavy load. Everything else was in his pack, the risk of being separated from that critical cache always in the back of his mind.
The Arkansas highway department hadn’t been mowing the borders of the interstate, and the weeds were thigh high. I’m going to complain to my congressman, Bishop mused as he stepped off the pavement and into the growth.
He slowly climbed up the embankment, making his way to the roadway crossing the interstate, stopping at the crest to scout both directions. Nothing. Weeds, woods and wilderness were all that filled his gaze.
The next step was to walk the once-grassy area between the interstate and the country road crossing above. He didn’t want to hit a big rock or fall into a hidden ditch. The area was flat and smooth, no apparent truck-traps waiting to ruin his day.
Satisfied he could forge his own exit ramp without any issue, he returned to the idling truck and began gradually progressing across the uneven ground. A few minutes later, he pulled onto the county road and turned south.
While getting off the wide-open spaces of the federal highway provided some relief, the rural road was hardly a panacea of tactical security. He had simply swapped terrain suited for long-range engagements for surroundings that fostered close-in encounters.
Wooded land, dense with undergrowth, covered the rolling hills. Visibility was less than 100 feet in most directions. Compounding the issue were the curves and undulations of the road. Every pinnacle of a rise could deliver an unwanted surpri
se, every turn hiding what was around the bend.
There was also the uncertainty of the best driving speed for the truck. A slower pace gave him more time to evaluate his unfamiliar environment while haste made the truck a more difficult target. He settled on a deliberately cautious speed. The lack of traffic convinced him that the locals didn’t expect intruders and thus would not be prepared with an ambush.
You’re being silly, he chided himself. You have no idea if these people would be hostile to you. Your imagination is running away to dark places without any cause. Still, he proceeded with caution due to the unknown rather than any perceived threat.
“I need local information,” he thought aloud. “It would sure help to understand the native mindset.”
The road was working its way downward, a gradual slope that eventually revealed a bridge at the bottom. The ancient wood and iron structure wasn’t aligned well with the pavement, and Bishop had to slow the truck even more for a smooth crossing. Glancing at the water below, he spied two youngsters with fishing poles along the bank of a large creek.
The two juvenile fishermen seemed as surprised to see Bishop as he was to see them. In a flash, they both threw down their poles and scampered into the cover of the bush.
Bishop stopped the truck, right in the middle of the bridge, unsure of his next move. He had progressed too far from the interstate to turn back, and there was no way to know if another route existed. The ten gallons of gas were by no means an infinite supply, and there was always the possibility of a chase or getting lost wasting his precious fuel.
The two boys reminded him of a scene from a Mark Twain novel. Minus any straw hats, both wore rolled up overalls and plaid shirts. He guessed the lads to be in their very early teens. Obviously, their parents had taught them not to talk to post-apocalyptic strangers.
They had run in the same direction he was headed, which meant depending on how far away their home was located, they might be issuing a warning of the approaching truck even now. Bishop had visions of a father, uncle, and older brothers rushing in a house, all of the men grabbing their shotguns to protect their family.
