Broken Roads: A Tale of Survival in a Powerless World (Broken Lines Book 2)

by James Hunt

  The afternoon heat was getting worse. Ulysses shirt was drenched in sweat. He swung the axe high, digging deeper into the thick trunk of the pine. He felt the wood handle of the axe slide through his hands with each blow. The strain on his face, the tightening of his back, his muscles fatigued from the exertion and hot summer sun. Finally, the massive trunk snapped in half.

  With half the tree now leaning at a more easily leveraged angle, Ulysses climbed up on the roof and crept around the area where the rest of the tree still remained. His knees cracked as he bent low trying to put his body behind the lift. He strained, pushing the log from the roof to the ground.

  Just like the tree, Ulysses collapsed after the encounter. He lay on his back, sucking in air. His chest heaved up and down, the heat from the sun barreling down on him. He focused on slowing his breath to a steady rhythm and letting his heart rate come down.

  Once Ulysses’ felt he had controlled his breathing, he pushed himself up and took a look where the tree had crashed into the roof.

  It wasn’t as bad as he thought. Only one of the logs on the roof had been cracked from the weight of the pine and the only hole it created didn’t penetrate all the way through the roof.

  Ulysses climbed down the ladder and headed to the front of the cabin to grab some water. When he entered Anne was coming up from the basement, her bloody hands holding dirty gauze.

  “How’s he doing?” Ulysses asked.

  Anne tossed the old bandages into the waste bucket. The dark bags under her eyes dragged her face down.

  “He’s getting a little warm. I’ve been giving him Ibuprofen to help with the fever and I’ve been redoing the dressings on his wound, but it’s still too soon to tell. How’s the roof?”

  “Not as bad as I thought.”

  Ulysses walked into the kitchen with a slight limp. He tried to play it off, but Anne noticed.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” Anne asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine, here, sit down,” she said pulling a chair out for him.

  Anne helped him into the chair and grabbed a bottle of water out of the cabinet. Ulysses gulped it down. She disappeared into the basement and came back holding two pills and extended her hand to him.

  Ulysses popped the pills into his mouth and leaned back in the chair gingerly.

  “Your back?” Anne asked.

  “Just tired,” Ulysses said.

  “Ulysses, now’s not the time to be a hero. I can’t have two seriously injured men to take care of. I need you to be careful.”

  Ulysses’ twirled the gold band around his finger. He smiled to himself.

  “You’re just like her you know.”

  “Like who?”

  “My late wife Margaret.”

  The chair creaked as Ulysses leaned forward. He rubbed his fingers along the callouses covering his palms, the flesh still pink from the friction of the wooden handle on the axe.

  “She was the strongest woman I ever met. I remember the first time I saw her. I had just started engineering school. The farm next to her family’s needed a new barn and called the construction company I worked for. We went on our first date that night. Sandwiches by the river.”

  Ulysses could still smell the mud on the riverbank. He could feel his bare feet, squishing into the mud. His hand finding hers for the first time and remembering how warm her skin was. The moonlight danced off her hair and her green eyes glowed in darkness.

  “I wish I could have met her,” Anne said.

  “She would have liked you,” Ulysses answered.

  Freddy came into the kitchen, yawning.

  “Who would have liked you, Mom?” Freddy asked.

  “Grandma,” Anne said lifting Freddy into her arms and kissing his temple.

  “Do you think she would have liked me?” Freddy asked.

  “She would have loved you,” Ulysses replied.

  “Well, I would love some breakfast,” Freddy said.

  Anne set him down and he rushed over to the table behind Ulysses.

  “I think we all would. Ulysses?” Anne asked.

  “I’d love some,” Ulysses replied.

  Day 6 (Biker Gang)

  The motorcycles flew down the highway, scattered randomly along the road. Jake road in front, leading his men to whatever town came next. They’d left Cleveland behind to rot. They’d been riding for forty miles before they came across Carrollton, a small town just west of Pennsylvania in the middle of nowhere.

  Whatever cars the town had were parked right where they were when the EMP blast hit. Jake led the Diablos onto Carrollton’s Main Street, past some of their local stores, and the Sheriff’s office, to the motel. The bikers pulled into the motel’s parking lot side by side. The locals came out of their shops. The sight of working transportation caused a lot of jaws to drop.

  Jake cut the engine off and set the kickstand out, leaning the bike to the side. His face was red from the wind and his hair was blown back. His dark sunglasses reflected the townspeople moving toward him.

  “Afternoon, folks,” Hank Murth said.

  Hank Murth was an elderly man. He had walked out of the grocery store that bore his name. He had his apron on and the pistol hanging at his hip seemed out of place. He extended his hand to Jake, who ignored it.

  The crowd around them grew. None of Jake’s men moved until he did, so they followed his lead, just waiting. Questions flooded the air:

  “How did you guys get the bikes to work?”

  “Is the rest of the country in trouble?”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Is help on the way?”

  Most of the townspeople were older. Their worn faces pleading for answers, worried about what the future would hold for them. Jake looked around and noticed more people leaving their stores, coming out in the street to meet them, but the only person he kept his eyes on was the Sheriff strutting down the sidewalk.

  Sheriff Barnes was a good’ol boy if Jake ever saw one, all the way from his cowboy hat to his boots, and that polished badge shining in the sun. Two deputies dressed in similar fashion followed closely behind him.

  “Well, I never thought I’d see the day where I’d be happy to have a group of bikers roll through my town,” Barnes said.

  Jake looked the officers up and down. Their bellies protruded over their waists, their gun holster straps still covering their pistols, slowing them down if they had to draw. They were kind. They were weak.

  “How many people do you have in town, Sheriff?” Jake asked.

  “Oh, I’d say there’s probably fifty of us here right now, more if you count some of the surrounding farms.”

  “You and your deputies have any trouble lately? Any shortages of anything?”

  “Well, no, so far we’ve been okay.”

  Jake pulled the knife from his side and jammed it into the Sheriff’s throat. The blood spurt over Jake’s arm as he dug the blade deeper. Jake pulled the blade out and the Sheriff dropped to the ground. The Sheriff’s blood drenched his shirt and dimmed the shine on his badge.

  Before the deputies could react Frankie blasted them through the eyes with his pistol. Hank reached for his gun, but Jake drew his own pistol and shot Hank through the gut.

  Hank barreled over to the ground and the rest of the crowd scattered. They ran for their stores, their homes, whatever cover they could find.

  With the town’s law at Jake’s feet, and their blood pooling on the street, Jake turned to his men, specks of the Sheriff’s blood still fresh on his face.

  “We take what we want, boys. This town is ours,” Jake said.

  The Diablos cheered and made their way down Main Street. Jake had his men hit the hunting store first. They smashed the windows, broke the glass cases housing the weapons, and horded all the ammo they could find.

  They all spread out, hunting down the townspeople like dogs. A few fought back, but there weren’t enough that did to cause any trouble. Jake and his club were twenty
strong. They were hungry, vicious, and had nothing to lose.

  Gunshots and screams filled the town’s streets. Jake could see people running down the highway. He gathered six of his men around him.

  “You three take the north end and you three take the south. Anyone that tries to run for it you gun down, understand?” Jake asked.

  They nodded and took off toward the ends of town. Jake flagged down Frankie.

  “Clear out the motel,” Jake said.

  Frankie ran through the small motel, smashing down doors. He cleared the first floor and made his way up to the second. Each room he checked was empty. He blasted the locks of the doors until he came across a family huddled in the corner of their room: a husband, wife, and three daughters.

  The husband tried to keep his family behind him, shielding them from harm. They were all shaking. The husband was the first to stand and speak.

  “P-please. We don’t w-want any trouble,” he said.

  The smoke from Frankie’s gun barrel rose in the air next to him. He holstered his pistol, smiling. His left hand went for the blade on his side. He ran his fingers across the flat end of the steel right up to the tip.

  The husband stepped forward, his hands trying to form fists. Frankie toyed with him, jerking forward to scare the man, keeping him on his toes. Each time Frankie moved, the wife and daughters behind him let out a yelp and with each yelp Frankie let out a throaty laugh.

  When the husband finally made a move for the blade Frankie knocked his hand out of the way and thrust the five inches of steel into the husband’s stomach.

  Frankie twisted and turned the knife in the husband’s gut. The husband’s hands groped Frankie, grasping onto him and trying to hold on to the last moments of life he had left.

  Blood dribbled down the husband’s chin and then he collapsed on the carpet, coughing up blood, clutching the knife wound and trying to staunch the bleeding with his hands.

  The wife crawled to him with tears running down her face. She held his face in her hands. His eyes stared blankly up at her. His lungs gasped for breath until finally the gasps stopped, his body lying motionless before her.

  Drops of blood from Frankie’s knife dripped on the carpet next to him. He wiped the blood from the blade onto the bed sheets, smearing red stains at the foot of the bed.

  “Well, aren’t you a pretty bunch,” Frankie said.

  Frankie’s ragged black hair hung in mangled strands across his face. The sweat from a week’s worth without showering had let the grime on his skin build up and a strong odor surrounded his body. He pointed at the oldest daughter, Mary, who was no older than sixteen.

  “You. Come here,” he said.

  “No!” the mother cried, rushing back to her daughters.

  Frankie moved slowly toward them. The daughters retreated further into the corner of the room by the sink and bathroom. All three daughters were crying, their mother spreading her arms wide, offering her body as the only protection she had to give.

  “Come here,” Frankie repeated.

  Frankie tossed the mother aside and seized Mary’s arm. The girl flailed as he threw her onto the bed covered with the bloodstains of her father.

  “Wait!” the mother screamed.

  Frankie pointed the pistol at the youngest daughter, Erin, and the mother stopped.

  “Wait,” she said calmly. “Take me.”

  She slowly unbuttoned her blouse, her fingers trembling and fumbling with each button. She walked slowly to him, taking her shirt off.

  “Take me,” she repeated.

  Frankie looked her up and down. The gun still pointed at Erin, while Mary lay on her back, frozen in fear on the bed.

  “Just let them go,” the mother said.

  She was standing directly in front of him now. Frankie ran the tip of his blade gently across the mother’s exposed flesh.

  “Take off your pants,” Frankie ordered.

  She undid the clip on her skirt and let it slide down her legs onto the ground. She kicked the skirt off of her bare feet. Small spasms shook her body as she stood there awkwardly in front of him.

  Frankie grabbed her by the hair and threw her on the bed next to her daughter. The mother tried to push Mary off the bed, but Frankie pointed the pistol at her.

  “No. She watches,” Frankie said smiling.

  Frankie’s jeans dropped to the floor and he climbed on top of the mother. She turned her head to her daughters, their faces red and wet with tears. Her face was calm. She slowly mouthed, “close your eyes.”

  The mattress rocked back and forth. Frankie’s grunts where loud and sharp. He kept his head down, his face buried into the mother’s neck, forcing his body onto hers.

  The door to the motel room still hung open. Outside the sounds of gunfire and screams echoed in the distance.

  The mom saw the open door and used her free hand to grab Mary’s arm. Mary opened her eyes, focusing only on her mother’s face. The mother made a quick nod toward the door and pointed to her other daughters crouching on the floor.

  Mary nodded and gently crawled off the bed. She rushed over to Erin, and her middle sister Nancy, and grabbed the two of them.

  The mother wrapped her arms around Frankie’s back, her lower lip quivering as she coaxed him on.

  “Yes,” she whispered

  “You like that, bitch?”

  Frankie thrust his body harder into her and the mother cried in pain as she watched her daughter’s slip out the door.

  The three girls ran down the concrete sidewalk outside the rooms, ducking below the windows when they saw the doors open and the sounds of other bikers inside.

  Mary led the pack, checking each open door they passed, making sure it was safe. The only one that kept glancing back to where they’d left their mother was Erin.

  All of them were barefoot and once they made it to the parking lot Mary picked up Erin and they sprinted across the cracked pavement, avoiding the line of bikes parked near the front.

  They made it onto Main Street and ran inside the first store they came across. The windows were smashed to Murth’s Grocery and inside a body lay across the tile, a trail of blood following it from the street.

  Hank Murth was on his back, gasping for breath when the three girls came in. The bell at the top of the glass door jingled when they entered. The girls gasped at the sight of the body.

  “Mary, what are we going to do? What about mom?” Nancy said.

  Mary whipped around, her face angry, and grabbed Nancy by the shoulder’s and shook her violently.

  “Will you shut up?” Mary screamed.

  Nancy broke down. She collapsed to the floor, weeping.

  “I’m sorry, Nancy. I just…” Mary said.

  The crack in Mary’s voice brought on sobs of her own. She had no idea where she was going, what she needed to do to protect her sisters, or how to help her mother. She closed her eyes, trying to the get the picture of her mother lying on the bed out of her mind.

  “In the back,” Hank said.

  Hank was lifting a bloody, shaking hand, pointing behind him. His breaths were short, and sporadic. His lungs wheezed with effort, trying to stay alive.

  “There’s a… room… in the back… stay there,” Hank said.

  The back of the store was dimly lit.

  “It’s… Safe,” Hank said.

  Mary was out of options. She grabbed her sisters and headed to the back of the store. A small sliver of light came from under the crack of a door. Mary turned the doorknob and pushed it open.

  It must have been a room where the old man was living. There was a small cot on the far side of the room when they entered. A desk with a kerosene lamp on it, mirror, sink, and closet door filled the rest of the tiny space.

  Mary locked the door behind her. Nancy picked Erin up and put her on the bed, while Mary paced back and forth.

  “What do we do now?” Nancy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mary said.

  “When do we get to see Mom a
nd Dad again?” Erin asked.

  Mary froze in the middle of the room. Nancy looked back at Erin, whose legs swung on the edge of the bed.