Breaking the Beast

by Steven Bird

  Loose Creek was located approximately one hundred miles east of Whiteman AFB. We can do this, I thought. We’re almost there.

  As I scanned the map looking for every possible route to Whiteman from our location, I heard Tamara yawn, and say, “Good morning, sunshine.”

  I smiled and asked, “Are you talking to me or the sunshine?”

  Grinning, she said, “Well, the way things have been going lately, seeing each of you another time feels like a victory.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I chuckled. “How do you feel this morning?”

  “A little sore, but that’s to be expected,” she answered. Standing and stretching while taking in a deep breath with a yawn, she rubbed her elbow and said, “This lifestyle is taking its toll on me. I feel like I’ve aged twenty years in two weeks.”

  “I know the feeling,” I replied. “I’m not feeling too great myself.”

  Changing the subject, Tamara asked, “What’s for breakfast?”

  “I was just about to fry some bacon and eggs, but then I woke up. Since we only brought the Symbex pack, not expecting to spend the night in Loose Creek, and not having room in the plane for a second pack even if we wanted it, I… I have no idea, but I’m feeling the effects of a prolonged empty stomach.”

  “There’s always that gas station sushi you had your eye on yesterday,” she grinned. “You know you want it.”

  “I’ll just let my stomach eat itself, but thanks,” I joked as I began looking around the garage for items of use. As my eyes scanned the room, then passed across the canvas car cover, lured to a pair of mountain bikes hanging from the ceiling in the corner behind it.

  Hey, wait a minute, I thought as I quickly returned my attention to the car, recognizing the familiar shape of my father’s car from my childhood.

  “There’s no way this is what I think it is,” I said as I reached for the canvas car cover.

  “What? A car?” she asked.

  As I peeled back the canvas, I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me as it revealed the glossy raven black paint and signature Shelby stripe of a 1967 Ford Shelby GT500 Mustang.

  Removing the rest of the cover and tossing it in the floor, I was in near disbelief. It was immaculate. Along the side of the car was the GT500-labeled stripe with the Cobra badge just above it and ahead of the driver’s door.

  The car was on jack stands, although its wheels and tires were still installed, probably to help prevent dry rot, I assumed, as they were a retro-style reproduction tire designed to complement cars of that era while offering modern performance. The tread was worn slightly, so the car had been a driver, not just a trailer queen.

  Inside, the owner had placed several moisture-absorbing canisters in various places, and even a mouse trap. That was smart, I thought. I couldn’t imagine storing a collector’s car such as this, only to find out a mouse had chewed up the original interior.

  I opened the hood to reveal an intact, 428 Cobra Jet V-8, complete with the factory dual-carb setup and all. The engine was clean, but not trailer-queen clean. Again, this car had been a driver. I had much respect for its owner.

  Walking to the back of the car, I crawled underneath and tapped on the gas tank, hearing an empty, hollow sound.

  “They drained the tank,” I said. “That’s perfect. We don’t have to worry about varnished fuel or rust.”

  “Perfect?” Tamara repeated. “Are you planning on taking this old thing?”

  Looking at her as if she had three heads, I said, “Of course! It’s fast, it’s EMWS-proof because there are no electronics, it’s all old-school. And, it’s fast!”

  “You said the fast part already,” she grumbled, shooting me a scowl.

  “Besides, think about it,” I said with the excitement in my voice, “It’s like it was meant to be. We’ve used horses, which are mustangs…”

  “Wild horses are mustangs, those horses weren’t wild,” she moaned.

  “Yeah, but it’s symbolism,” I scoffed. “Anyway, then we flew here in a P-51 Mustang! A freaking P-51! And now, the car of my dreams, a 1967 Shelby GT500 Mustang, is sitting here in front of me, perfectly preserved, as if it’s begging me to do the last one hundred miles of our trip!”

  Seeing that my childlike excitement was not going to be dissuaded, she caved when she realized she was up against a mental brick wall, and asked, “But what about fuel? You said the tanks were drained, didn’t you?”

  “We’ll find some!” I replied with overly optimistic enthusiasm, refusing to let common sense get in the way of a perfectly good, poorly conceived plan. “Besides, we only need to go one hundred miles.”

  “What kind of mileage does that thing get?” she asked. “That big motor sure looks thirsty.”

  “Well, not good. I don’t know off the top of my head, probably 10MPG or so, but, still, it’s just one hundred miles.”

  Seeing that logic and reason were going to get her nowhere, Tamara exhaled, and said, “Well, let’s find your gas.”

  I grabbed her and hugged her tight, nearly lifting her off the ground. Holding her out at arm’s length, I said, “I know this seems crazy, but…”

  “Shhh,” she interrupted. “No, it makes perfect sense. Let’s do it.”

  I wasn’t sure if she really thought taking a classic dream car our last one hundred miles was actually a good idea, or if she was just humoring me, seeing that I needed a mental diversion. If we were gonna make a run to the end zone, I wanted it to be something epic. Going out in a blaze of glory in a Subaru just wouldn’t have had the same… well, pizazz, for lack of a better word.

  If you’ve ever seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, then you understand the romance of how they went down swinging in the end. If this journey from D.C., escaping the belly of the beast with something that can break its back, and with all of the people who willfully gave their lives to see this mission through, and well, I simply couldn’t allow it to all end with a whimper.

  Before we went looking for fuel, I examined the car carefully to see if there was anything else we might need. Almost immediately, I noticed the battery wasn’t installed in the car.

  “That makes sense,” I said. “If he’d gone through the trouble of preserving the tires and the fuel system, surely the battery would have been on that list as well.”

  I began looking around the garage, and on the very back workbench, off to the corner on the left, amidst a messy pile of tools and rags, I saw a small solar panel suction-cupped to the window. A wire ran down the wall from the solar panel through a gap between the bench and the wall.

  I knelt down and looked underneath the bench and voila! There it was. The brilliant former owner of this car had the battery on a solar battery tender. Why not just use a plug-in battery tender? Who knows? Especially if all of this had been done before the outbreak when people still looked at electricity coming through those magical outlets in the wall as a sure thing. Or perhaps he mothballed the car once the world’s stability came into question, making the solar charger the logical choice. Either way, I was thankful for his foresight.

  Removing the battery from its charging cradle under the bench, I carried it over to the car and very carefully put it into place, connecting the cables and tightening them down.

  “Hmmm,” I wondered aloud. “Keys. We need keys.” Walking over to the driver’s door, I opened it and mumbled, “What are the odds?” as I felt around above the visor. “Nope, that would have been too easy.”

  “I’ll go look in the house,” I said.

  “I’ll go with you,” she insisted, picking up the shotgun and bringing it along.

  Just before we left the garage, I turned and picked up the Symbex pack, which was kind of useless at this point considering I could fit its remaining viable contents in my pocket.

  “We can’t drop the ball this close to the end zone,” I said.

  “You and your sports references,” she quipped.

  “I’m an American; what do you expect? It’s part of o
ur language, whether you like sports or not.”

  Carefully stepping out of the garage, we were awestruck by the beauty of the home. It was a gorgeous, two-story brick house, probably of recent construction, but with the class and style of a classic home from yesteryear, complete with a chimney on each end of the house and a large, covered entryway that visitors could park underneath when arriving at the front door.

  “Yep, this is the kind of person you’d expect to own a car like that,” I noted.

  Visually scanning the area, we saw no signs of habitation or people having been in the area, so we carefully proceeded to the home.

  We worked our way around behind the home, looking for the back door, and when we found it, it was evident it had been broken from its hinges. A large wooden post lay next to it with ropes running through holes bored through it as handles.

  “Looks like someone made themselves a battering ram,” I observed. “And judging from the blunted end, I’d imagine this wasn’t its first forced entry.” Playing the scenario out in my mind, I added, “So you’d think its owners would have taken it with them to their next target.”

  I motioned for Tamara to hand me the shotgun and then carefully stepped inside, clearing the room as I entered.

  Once inside the mud room, signs of a struggle were obvious. There were bullet holes in the walls that had evidently come from another room inside the home, due to the fact that the holes were exit holes where the rounds entered the room via the drywall, busting their way through.

  As we stepped into the kitchen, what would have been a dream kitchen in a different time, I looked at the large, stainless-steel double-doored refrigerator and noticed holes from several small caliber, high-velocity rounds.

  As we stepped into the living room, we could see that it was where the final scene had played out. The decayed remains of several individuals were strewn about in their respective death poses, and judging by their attire, they weren’t the rightful occupiers of the home.

  Looking to my left, seeing the main staircase that led up to the second floor, I said, “We’ve got to make sure the place is secure. I don’t want to get shot in the back while messing around in the garage.”

  Tamara nodded in agreement, so we proceeded up the stairs. As we ascended the staircase, I couldn’t help but notice the photographs hung on the wall on the way up. There were several family portraits, depicting the scene of a loving family of four. I started getting a feeling of déjà vu. Oh, please don’t let me find another tragic family scene, I thought. I couldn’t handle any more dead children or suicidal, loving parents.

  Other pictures on the wall depicted the father as a military man in his younger years. One image in particular, was of who I assumed to be the man of the house, posing with a military unit while wearing irregular uniforms and face paint, all holding their weapons with a jungle scene in the background.

  Nodding toward the photograph, I whispered, “That explains the invader's lack of success.”

  Reaching the upper floor, we cleared each room, one by one. At the end of the hallway, we entered the master bedroom. Inside, we found the body of the man who we assumed was in the family portraits and the military photos.

  His decayed body was lying face down, wearing blue jeans and a load-bearing tactical vest that was worn overtop a polo shirt. An M4-style AR-15 carbine lay in front of him on the floor with a magazine still inserted.

  “I bet the home invasion was a surprise,” I whispered in reverence to the scene.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “He’s not wearing any shoes, and those clothes aren’t’ something you’d wear to a gunfight,” I explained. “No, I’d imagine he grabbed his vest and rifle and sprang into action at the first sign of trouble. And based on the fact that his rifle and gear are still in his possession, I’d say he won.

  “He probably took a bullet during the melee, then retreated upstairs to say goodbye to his family.”

  “You think they got away?” she asked.

  “There are no other bodies, and he surely wouldn’t have been in a position to have disposed of them. And look at the drawers, they’re all half pulled open like someone packed in a hurry. My guess is he made it to where his family was hiding just before he died, and then they left.

  “They must have left in a hurry if they just left him on the floor,” she added.

  “Who knows what kind of madness was going on at the time? I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted them to risk themselves worrying about him any longer.”

  As we briefly looked around the room, I found a photograph on the nightstand of him, his wife, and two daughters. I put the picture in my pocket and noticed Tamara staring at me with a raised eyebrow.

  “If we’re taking this man’s car to finish the journey, I’m taking part of him with us. It was his meticulous attention to detail that left us a car free from dry-rotted tires, varnished fuel, and a dead battery. That, and if things ever get straightened out, and if his family somehow survived, I want to be able to return the car to them. I know, that’s nuts. They’ve probably long since passed. But I’d feel like I was stealing from this man if I didn’t at least have the best of intentions.”

  I glanced at Tamara out of the corner of my eye and noticed she was still staring at me, yet her look had changed from one of confusion to one of adoration.

  I smiled and said, “Yeah, yeah, I’m the guy that cries during sad movies.” Changing the subject before I got all teary-eyed, I smiled and said, “The OWA’s European leaders underestimated the American people’s deep-seated beliefs in the Second Amendment. I’m sure when men like him received the weapons confiscation order, he simply moved them from his safe to some other hiding place. Maybe he gave up a cheap shotgun or something to play along, but just think, if the illegal guns we’ve encountered along the way represent just a fraction of what people refused to turn in, there have to be millions of other weapons out there just waiting to be found.”

  I then walked over to the AR, picked it up, and began to inspect its condition. Removing the thirty-round standard capacity magazine, I noted from its weight that it was nearly full. I pushed down on the top cartridge, getting just a little movement out of it. I then slipped the magazine into my pocket, and eased back on the charging handle, flipping an unfired M855 green tip round from the chamber.

  “It looks like he slapped in a fresh mag and chambered a round once he’d eliminated the threats. Having the presence of mind to keep your weapon ready to go while carrying a fatal wound says a lot.”

  Tugging around on his vest, I removed two more loaded magazines. “That’s ninety rounds total,” I said. “That’ll do.”

  Looking back down at the man, I whispered, “Thank you, sir.”

  She patted my back and squeezed my shoulder, then we turned and worked our way back downstairs. Once we reached the lower level, I began searching for a batch of keys. It seemed everyone I’d ever met had a drawer, or basket or other such things where they kept a pile of keys to nearly everything they owned.

  After checking several drawers, I felt around on top of the fridge and found a small glass bowl. Removing it from the top of the refrigerator, I was pleased to find a bowl of change and keys. Sifting through the keys, I found a set of classic Ford keys adorned with a Shelby key fob.

  Holding it up for Tamara to see, I declared, “I think it’s safe to say these are the keys.”

  Rummaging around the rest of the property, we failed to find the fuel we hoped the man had squirreled away. With that last box still needing to be checked, we studied the map and got a good idea of our location, as well as the general layout of the small town, in order to try and decide which direction to strike out in search of fuel.

  Seeing her face light up with an idea, I asked, “What? What is it?”

  “The bicycles hanging in the garage behind the Mustang! We can take those and cover a lot more ground. We can’t keep dragging this out. I’m really hungry, and to be honest, I’m not feeling well.” />
  “It may just be the hunger,” I said, attempting to divert her fears of the obvious. “But the bikes are a great idea.”

  Once we had gotten the bikes down and aired their tires with a foot pump stored nearby on a shelf, Tamara said, “I think we should split up.”

  “Absolutely not!” I argued. “Some of Mr. Creepy’s friends may be out there.

  “I’m starting to think Mr. Creepy was the last remaining resident of this place. And like I said, we’re running out of time. Our clocks are ticking. I feel it.”

  Seeing that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer, I acquiesced and asked, “So, which direction do you want to go?”

  Orienting herself to the map, she said, “You go back toward the community center and those chicken farms behind it. Farms always have fuel somewhere, if it’s not already been taken, that is. I’ll head into town and look for vehicles that may have unvarnished fuel in the tanks. I can take a hose and jug for siphoning. We obviously can’t carry enough on the bikes, so if either of us can get at least a few gallons, we can get the car started, then go back to the source for more on our way out of town.”

  “That’s as good of an idea as any,” I conceded. “Except for the splitting up part, that is.”

  “Oh, c’mon. I got by just fine before the mighty Joe Branch came along. I’ll take the shotgun, you take the AR. We’ll both be able to defend ourselves.”

  “Touché,” I replied, with my pride stinging just a bit.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I felt something wrong in the pit of my gut as we went our separate ways. We’d come a long way to be taking unnecessary chances this close to the finish line. Then again, maybe this was her way of telling me she felt her own clock ticking away inside of her.

  With the AR slung across my shoulder, I rode the Trek hardtail mountain bike north and to the northeast on county road 403. It wasn’t long before I came upon the Loose Creek Community Center. I stopped at a distance of maybe one hundred yards or so, and just watched and listened.