When he reached the base of Clinch Mountain, he climbed onto the pedals and began pushing. Within a quarter-mile he was tiring and had to kick in the motorized assist. He had a long ascent ahead of him.
The climb was uneventful but at the top of the mountain, at Hayter’s Gap, the world opened up before him. Even in darkness there was a sense of the rich landscape that lay ahead of him. Without streetlights and communication towers, the countryside lay like a dark and convoluted fabric, like a barely visible sweater tossed on the floor in a dark bedroom.
It was the countryside of a hundred years ago. Of two hundred. Of two thousand. Conor sat there atop his bike for some time watching the stars and the sliver of moon.
After the long, slow ascent, Conor began the hair-raising descent. It was a narrow road with no shoulder and no guardrail. He tried to keep his speed down, concerned about hitting any road debris while driving by night vision.
And that was exactly what happened to him.
He was in a curve, leaning slightly, when the front tire hit a piece of gravel just slightly smaller than a baseball. The wheel skipped hard to the right and Conor was slammed to the ground before he even had time to process what was happening. The bike slid hard to the shoulder and struck an exposed rock face.
When he finally stopped skidding, Conor told himself he was lucky. Had he skidded toward the other shoulder he’d have been launched into the air, since there was no guardrail. At least on this side there’d been something to arrest his slide. He lay there for a moment assessing the damage.
His head had hit the ground but the military bump helmet had prevented any damage. He was hardheaded after all. He had on gloves also, which protected his hands. A long sleeve camo shirt covered his elbows but offered no protection. His sleeves were shredded and he could feel the burn of raw skin on his arms.
He carefully moved his arms and shoulders, aware that it was usually the collarbone that snapped in a bike wreck. Fortunately for him, it happened so fast that he hadn't had time to try to catch himself. That had likely saved his collarbone. He pushed free of the bike and rolled onto his back. He laid there a moment longer, assessing the damage, before determining that he was probably okay.
He got to his feet and went to his bike, standing it up to take a look at it. His heart sank. The back wheel had caught most of the impact against the rock face. There was a large flat section on the wheel now. There was no way it would roll well enough to ride.
Conor bit his tongue to keep from yelling out into the night. If anyone was awake there was no use alerting them to his presence. It seemed like remote, empty country but who knew? He stood the bike up and assessed it again. It would be slow going like this. He suspected he only had thirty miles remaining so he would just try to make a go of it and see what he could do.
He thought of just throwing the bike over the hillside and carrying his gear but he didn’t want to give up the electric bike. It had proven itself on this trip. He would try to get the bike home if he could.
The walk down the mountain was a couple of miles. With each revolution of the wheel, there was thud as the flat section hit the ground. Still, he kept pushing. The mountain itself was uninhabited, but when he reached the bottom and the road flattened out he could see the shape of a few odd farmhouses scattered on the countryside. After several more miles, he had to admit he was not going to end his journey under cover of darkness. The sun would be up soon and he would have to figure out what he was going to do.
Had he been in a more populated area he would holed up for safety and slept for a couple of hours. He was definitely exhausted. This seemed like remote country, and since he had not encountered any other people, he decided to press on.
As the sun began to lighten the sky, Conor removed his night vision device. The world was not fully bright yet but it was at that in between stage where night vision was no longer providing him any advantage. He stashed it in his pack. The device was irreplaceable in these conditions and he wanted it immediately on his person in case he had to run.
Conor was starting to ache a little bit now. The wreck had banged him up more than he’d first thought. His knee was getting sore and he could feel his back stiffening. On a long grade, he passed by a pile of logs. It appeared to be a stack of culled logs from a timber operation. As he walked past the pile he couldn’t help but stop and take a break, dropping the kickstand on his bike and leaving it in the center of the road.
“Mister, you need to keep moving!” came a voice from the log pile.
Conor nearly crapped himself. He’d not seen anyone. Whoever this was completely had the jump on him. If they wanted him, they had him.
Conor turned up his accent again, trying for the same approach he’d used on the bridge in Damascus. He was just a poor Irish traveler, biking the United States when the whole country went to hell. "I'm just passing through. Not looking for any trouble."
"I don't intend to cause you any trouble if you get up and keep moving. If you stay, I ain’t making any promises.”
“Very well then,” Conor said, standing and regarding his sad bike and the trailer he pulled behind it. "I just needed a break. I was making decent time until I wiped out on the mountain. Prior to that I was running a more conventional wheel profile. You know, the old-fashioned round kind."
A figure stood up from the recesses of the log pile. He was wearing a dirty piece of burlap around him like a poncho and even in daylight it would have hidden him well. He carried a hunting rifle with a scope and was pointing it directly at Conor.
“My dad rides a bike,” the figure said.
“He must be a good man,” Conor said, regarding the figure and understanding that it was a boy. “A man who appreciates the world from two wheels is of superior character, in my humble opinion.”
“He is a good man,” the boy said, still aiming the weapon at Conor.
“Look, son, can you lower the rifle? I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m just passing through.”
"I’ll lower the weapon but if you try anything I’ll kill you,” the boy said. “I’ve killed a man before.”
"I truly hate to hear that, son. I’m sorry the world put you in that position. Either way, they call me The Mad Mick and I'll not break the peace. You have my word on that," Conor said. "I have a daughter to get home to and I’d rather not do it full of lead."
“The Mad Mick?” the boy asked. “Where did you pick up a name like that?”
Conor smiled. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
The boy raised the rifle back up, unfamiliar with the expression.
Conor raised his hands in a soothing gesture. “Easy there, it’s an old expression.”
The boy lowered the rifle just a hair. “I’d go easy with expressions like that in this day and age.”
Conor nodded. “Good advice. Truth is I'm pretty much dead in the water right now. The long ride ahead of me has turned into a long push. That dad of yours wouldn’t have a spare wheel lying about anywhere would he?”
“Probably,” the boy replied.
As the ambient light increased, Conor could see clearly now that the boy was a teenager. Young enough to think like a child but old enough to pull the trigger when he had to. It hurt Conor to think the boy had been forced to kill already. It reminded him of the violent world of his own childhood. He understood that it would probably not be the last time this boy had to kill, though. That was the world as they knew it. The world they inherited.
“I could trade you for the wheel,” Conor said.
“Don’t need a trade. My dad has a pile of old bikes,” the boy said. “If I get you a wheel, how about you just put it on and get out of here, okay? Strangers make me nervous.”
Conor nodded. “I promise.”
The boy pulled a walkie-talkie from a pouch. "Mom, you around?"
It took a moment, but a reply came. “Everything okay, Pete?”
“There’s a man passing by on the road. He needs a bike wheel. I think we shoul
d give him one to get him on the road.”
“You didn’t tell him that your father wasn’t home, did you?” Ellen asked.
Pete looked at Conor, who’d clearly heard the comment. “No, but I think he knows now.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Ellen said. “Don’t let your guard down. It could be a trick.”
Pete raised his rifle back up, levelling it on the man. He tucked the radio in his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My mom is pretty serious about security.”
Conor nodded. “As she should be. The world is a dangerous place.”
“She’ll be here in a second.”
Conor gestured at one of the logs. “Can I sit back down?”
“Suit yourself.”
Conor sat down. “Where’s your dad?”
The question made the boy immediately uncomfortable. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”
“I already know he’s gone,” Conor said. “I heard your mother say so on the radio.”
“He’s on a work trip,” Pete said. “He’s not made it back home yet but he’s on his way.”
Conor nodded without comment. If the man was far away from home, it was unlikely he’d make it back. There was too much violence already. Unless he was prepared for that, he’d die in a ditch on the side of the road like so many others.
The roar of an approaching engine caught Conor’s attention. To his credit, the boy did not take his eyes from the older man. A side-by-side UTV skidded to a stop and a woman sprang out with an M4.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
She meant business. She was the kind of woman that shot people. Conor gestured at the bike, at the damaged wheel. “My name is Conor. I was travelling by bike and had a wreck on top of the mountain there.”
She backed away from the UTV. “I brought a parts bike with me. Take what you need, then get out of here.”
Conor stood. “I appreciate it.”
He went to the back of the UTV and found a rusty bike from someone’s scrapyard. It was exactly what he needed. The tire was even aired up so he’d not have to switch his tube and tire onto the new wheel.
“I’ll just be a moment.”
Under the woman’s watchful eye, and under the red dot of her weapon’s optic, he deftly changed the wheel with his bike tool kit. He had to add a few pounds of air with his pump but was soon satisfied that he was roadworthy again. He tossed his bent-up wheel into the ditch.
“I appreciate your kindness,” Conor said. “I hope your dad makes it back, son.”
Pete nodded.
Conor mounted his bike but paused before pedaling off. He reached for a pocket on his vest, which triggered a volley of shouts from the mother. Conor paused.
“I’m reaching for a paper and pen.”
“Go slowly,” she warned.
Conor removed a pad of paper from his pocket and scribbled a note on it. He dropped it to the ground beside him and replaced his writing supplies in his pocket. “You two have a nice day and be careful,” he said before pedaling off.
When Conor had topped the hill and left their sight, Pete went and picked the note up. His mother came to his side and read over his shoulder.
“The Mad Mick?” she asked, reading from the paper.
“He said that was his name.”
“And an address?”
“It’s his address, mom,” Pete said. “It says: If I can return the favor, let me know. Please be careful. Protect your family.”
“He seemed like a nice man,” Pete said.
“Any man can seem nice until he kills you,” Ellen warned. “Don’t ever trust a stranger.”
Pete thought about the man with his odd accent. He hoped the man made it home safely. His thoughts returned to his own missing father and he hoped for his safety, too. The world had never seemed so menacing and unsafe to him. Even as a young man, even as little more than a child, Pete knew that this world would get worse before it got better.
Would it ever get better? Perhaps lawlessness and violence, once spilled upon the land, was a genie that could never be fit back in the bottle.
About the Author
Franklin Horton lives and writes in the mountains of southwestern Virginia. In his spare time he pursues outdoor adventures with his family. His first published novel, The Borrowed World, was published in May of 2015 and became an Amazon bestseller. Since that time he’s continued the series with Ashes of the Unspeakable , Legion of Despair and No Time For Mourning. In 2016 he also released Locker Nine, a novel taking place within the same fictional world as The Borrowed World Series.
To find out more about Franklin Horton and his books, please visit:
Website: www.franklinhorton.com
Facebook page : facebook.com/theborrowedworld
Twitter: @jfranklinhorton
Amazon: amazon.com/Franklin-Horton/e/B00JTXX6BE
Grace Under Fire Page 24
