by Ben S Reeder
I shook my head. “No, we’ll have to find a working car or something. Preferably something with four wheel drive. The roads are too iffy.”
“Ya’ll are thinking too big,” George said. He opened the doorway into the cathedral and led us back through the smaller office and classroom area to the kitchen. “Grab something to eat, get some rest, and in the morning, I’ll show you two how to get around in this neck of the woods.”
“I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle,” Amy said as we stood in the showroom of Bill’s Speed and Sport.
“You’ll learn,” I said. Beside me, George beamed and handed me a handful of keys that he’d taken from behind the counter.
“I suggest you go with the dirt bikes,” he said. “And accessorize.”
Chapter 6
On the Road Again…
~ The quest for freedom, dignity and the rights of man will never end. ~ William J Brennan, Jr.
Amy goosed the throttle on her Yamaha and sped down the straightaway, then downshifted as she came to the curved end of the dirt track. The little WR250R angled into the curve, and my arms tensed as she let up on the throttle, then goosed it again for a split second. The heavily modified bike had dumped her a few times on the curve, but she pulled out without laying it down and sped toward us. At the last moment, she grabbed the clutch and braked, sliding to a dusty stop a few feet away. Clad in the armor and vest we’d worn out of Kansas City and the helmet she’d put the two blue Mohawk strips on, she was better protected than she would be in most bike jackets, and the combat boots and greaves had protected her from road rash when she’d dumped the bike before.
“I think I’m ready,” she said as she took the helmet off. “I felt it trying to lay over on the curve, but I kept it under me.” Her smile was infectious, and I had to nod in agreement.
“Yes, padawan, I believe you’re ready for the trials.” I grabbed my helmet and put it on, then climbed onto my bike. Like her bike, mine was decked out with a clear four gallon gas tank, a tank bag strapped over that, with a small set of saddle bags on the side, and a matching set up on the tail, with a pair of saddle bags and a tail rack that held our larger gear like sleeping bags, tent, clothes, cooking kit and the Spitfire. We had found the one Amy was riding completely decked out in the speed shop’s work area. Using it as a template, we had raided the store’s accessory section and had put my bike together largely on the spot. Amy refused to part with her Ruger, and the armory had been stocked with M16A3s, which were too big to carry in addition to the Ruger. So I had taken the shoulder stock off the Mossberg and jury rigged a scabbard for it across the handlebars of her bike. The Ruger rode in a scabbard behind Amy’s right leg. My M4 was in a similar set up, and my Ruger Takedown pack was strapped to the Spitfire. I’d donated the Glock to the folks at St Mark’s and went back to an M9 with its ubiquitous nine millimeter round to supplement my two .45s and their dwindling stock of ammunition. With all of the other gear we were carrying, we were only left with room to carry one ammo can and however many rounds we could stuff into our packs and vests. For food, we had stocked ten First Strike Rations apiece and filled our camelbacks. This was the first time we’d tried the bikes fully loaded, and it looked like Amy had the hang of it, though neither of us would be winning any motocross races.
I started my bike and put it in gear, letting Amy take the lead back to the cathedral. We skirted a group of slow moving infected as we crossed the fairgrounds and hit the road going back north. A handful of minutes later, we were pulling into the parking lot at St. Mark’s. To my right, the morning sun was just clearing the tree tops and buildings. George was waiting at the gate, his lean, dark face looking a little forlorn. Behind him, we could see several other people, including Dr. Crews.
“Looks like you two are ready to hit the road,” he observed as we went through the gate and into the little courtyard.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “We’ve got a long way to go, and the sooner we get there, the sooner we can make it back to our family.”
“Hate to see you two leave,” he said. “Seems like I’ve been saying good-bye too much the past couple of weeks or so.”
“Hey, we brought another dozen folks to fill in for us,” Amy said. “And it’s not like you’re never going to hear from us again. You have that other radio like ours and the shortwave.” Her smile wavered as she tried to cheer him up, and his seemed to get stronger.
“Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to see you go,” he said. “You brought us so many blessings. And Allie is going to help us keep in touch with you. I’m gonna miss your smile around here, Amy.” Her smile brightened a couple of megawatts at that.
“George, I owe you my life, and I won’t forget that,” I said as I put my hand out. He shook it and smiled.
“We’ll keep you in our prayers, Dave,” he said. “You two stay safe and look out for each other. And don’t you worry. We’ll go get those kids.” I nodded, and turned to Amy. She stepped past me and put her arms around George in a fierce hug before she went to the gate. Dr. Crews came up to me and pressed a small package into my hand.
“Keep that wound cleaned, and change those bandages daily,” she said, her voice a little rough. “I didn’t let you rescue me so you could die of gangrene.”
“Not on my list of things to do,” I told her with a weak smile. I turned away and followed Amy out of the gate.
“You know, I’m getting tired of saying goodbye myself,” Amy said as she put her helmet on. I buckled mine on and pulled the shooting goggles down over my eyes.
“Me, too, padawan. Me, too.” We started the bikes up and waved before we pulled out onto the street. In my rearview mirror, I could see George lift his hand before he turned back and closed the gate. My thoughts wanted to go back to what might be going on in the cathedral after we left, but necessity forced me to focus on the path ahead. The street we were following, Burlington, took us south until we saw the railroad tracks crossing over the road. We turned right on the street before the road dipped under them and crossed the parking lot, then followed the tracks west, following the same route we’d taken to the armory. But instead of turning north, we kept following the tracks until we ran out of town and found ourselves back on flat prairie. A mile or so out of town the tracks crossed a road, and we followed it south about fifty yards until we hit Grand Army of the Republic Road. According to the map on my tank bag, it took us south of several towns to a road that would take us north across the Platte River.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, we were pointing our front tires north on Prosser Road. It was a little disappointing to leave Grand Army of the Republic Road, but it wasn’t like many people would get the reference any more. Nebraska was turning out to be a lot like Kansas, miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles. For half an hour, the most interesting thing in sight was the horizon. It was only when we got close to the Platte that we started seeing trees regularly, and even then they were mostly thin saplings choked with brush. Two houses that looked like they’d been built in the Sixties sat on either side of the road, and we did our best not to look very closely at them as we sped toward the narrow, two-lane bridge. Rusted side railings ran along on either side of us as we crossed the sluggish blue-green waters of the Palatte River, then we found ourselves among trees again. The stench of dead things hit our noses as we passed through the wooded area, then we were on another bridge, this one running across a shallow arm of the river that ran through a low, marshy bed. The terrain relinquished its hold on the trees and brush about a mile later when we crossed over a divided highway that was almost devoid of vehicles, and we were back to the unrelenting flatness and endless, vacant sky. For hours, we did nothing but ride through country that, according to George, had less than one person per square mile.
Around noon, I pulled to a stop near a ranch style house just off the road. A Ford F-150 and a pink Cadillac with a Mary Kay sticker shared space in the front driveway. Neither one had been built before the turn of the century, but bo
th looked like they would have run. I stretched slowly as I got off the bike, suddenly keenly aware that I’d been crouched in the same position for more than three hours. Amy groaned behind me as she discovered the same thing. Something was buzzing in my head as I looked around, some sense of wrongness that I couldn’t quite place.
“Are you thinking of gassing up here?” she asked as she eyed the house warily.
“It had crossed my mind, yeah,” I said.
“I feel kind of bad just taking their stuff. Do you think we should knock and see if anyone’s alive?” My answer was interrupted by a desiccated face slamming against the front window of the house. The front window looked straight out onto the yard, but it looked like the front door faced to the side. It took only a second for me to get the M9 out. Through the glass, I could hear the muted growl of the ghoul as she pressed against the window, her pastel blue skirt and jacket stained with blood. Her fist slammed into the oversized pane and started a long crack in it. She hit it again, and more fissures spread from the center of the break.
“Dave?” Amy asked from beside me.
“Get ‘er,” I said. Her Browning popped three times, and the ghoul fell back from the broken shards of the window. She dropped the barrel a little and straightened. The sound of glass shifting was the only warning we had before the ghoul leaped through the empty frame. Amy’s pistol barked again, this time in counterpoint to mine. The ghoul flopped backward in the air and landed on its ass. For a few seconds, we both watched the window, but she was apparently the only survivor. When nothing jumped out of the window at us,. Amy went forward a couple of steps and put a round through the ghoul’s face.
“I’m reloading,” she said a few seconds later. She pulled a fresh mag from her vest, dropped the magazine from the butt of her pistol and loaded the fresh one in seconds. “I’m good,” she said, and I reloaded as well.
With Amy on watch, I grabbed the siphon and stuck the long end into the truck’s tank and filled Amy’s bike, then started on mine. The truck’s tank petered out about halfway through mine, but the Cadillac had enough to finish the job. Minutes later, we were back on the road. By now, the flat terrain was turning into low hills, but we were still in the deep middle of prairie, where the tallest thing around was a telephone pole. If I hadn’t passed a sign saying we’d left Kansas a couple of days earlier, I would have sworn we were still in the same state.
After a couple of hours of driving, I pulled off to the right side of the road and rode to the top of a hill. From there, we could see for miles. I stopped the bike and pulled it up on its center stand before I pulled my pack off.
“Lunch time,” I said. We ate in silence, speaking only to trade my corn nuts for her peanut butter and crackers out of our MREs.
“I hope we’re past this by the time it gets dark,” Amy said after she drained the last of the drink mix from the pouch. The wind left a chill in its wake as it hissed through the grass, and I found myself agreeing with her.
“We should be in the Black Hills before dark. Lots of places to hole up there. But for now, get your sword, time to work on form.” She groaned but it didn’t slow her down. We worked on strikes and defense for half an hour, concentrating on slow versions of each, gradually working our way to half speed. After that, we worked on footwork and thrusts for another half hour, then took a break to stretch before we got back on the bikes and started on our way again.
An hour later, we came across a sign that said Alliance was fifteen miles ahead. If it warranted a sign, then there were enough people to make plenty of infected. But, the good thing about Nebraska was that near towns, most of the land was criss-crossed by farm roads in neat grids. About three miles from town, we took the first road north that we could. About half a mile down, we found ourselves at the driveway to a farm. Amy pulled up beside me after I came to a stop and looked over at me.
“Looks like we ran out of road,” she said with a grin. “What now, oh wise and powerful Jedi Master?”
“We don’t need roads, padawan,” I said. I turned my front wheel to my left and took off. A few seconds later, I heard the sharp buzz of Amy’s bike as she followed. The shocks took most of the bumps out of the ride as we skirted the edges of massive circles of tilled land. Our goal was US 385, which ran north out of Alliance. After about a mile, we hit a dirt track that ran alongside another farm. We followed it until it crossed a northbound road, but that one turned out to be almost as short lived as the one we’d just left. Once again, we went west. Then we hit Nebraska 87, and I followed that north, certain it would take us past the northern edge of Alliance.
Ahead and on the right, something caught my eye, and I slowed to take a closer look. A gray structure sat off the road about fifty yards or so, and behind it I could make out a taller yellow one. Slowly, it took shape and I saw that the gray structure was made out of cars. Then I saw the green sign, and I laughed.
“Carhenge Entrance,” it read. I slowed to a stop to take a better look, and Amy pulled up beside me.
“Look, Dave!” she called over the sound of the bike’s engine. “We found an ancient archeological site! Carhenge!” I laughed again, this time at her feigned ignorance.
“We must be the first humans in hundreds of hours to even see this spot,” I said. “Its raw, untamed beauty and the spectacle of ancient Americana.”
“Who knew this trip was going to be so educational?” she said. “I want to check it out!” She gunned her bike and turned off the road. For a moment, I considered telling her we had to keep moving, but I slapped that urge down. Seeing her impulsive and playful was a blessing of its own after the past two weeks, so I pulled in behind her. She was off her bike by the time I got my kickstand down and had the Mossberg slung as she headed toward the main attraction. I followed her as she approached the gray cars, her laughter a bright counterpart to the desolate sound of the wind.
“I wish I had a camera!” she called out to me. I looked over my shoulder at the gift shop, then turned back to her and held up one hand with my index finger up. The shop was closed after mid-September, but the door was no match for the pry bar in my pack. There wasn’t a lot inside given the time of year, but I found a box of disposable cameras next to an open carton full of Carhenge key chains and a half empty display of M&Ms. I grabbed two of each along with a couple of brochures for the place and headed back out. I had no idea if we’d ever get any pictures developed, but the idea that we might be able to do that someday was the important part.
“Make yourself pretty or whatever,” I said as I got closer. She yanked her helmet off and tried to smooth her hair, but the wind caught it and blew it across her face, and I snapped the first picture while she was busy looking exasperated. The gust died down a moment later and I snapped a better pic of her in front of the monument.
“Oh my God!” she cried out a moment later. “Is that a dinosaur? Dave, you’ve got to get a picture of that…and those four over there!” She ran over and posed in front of the metal dinosaur like she was running from it, then she went to the four painted cars and threw her arms up. Once I took the picture, she ran over to me and took the camera from my hand, then dragged me over to a metal sculpture of a fish. Getting into the spirit of things, I held the pry bar like a fishing pole and posed as if I was trying to reel it in, trying to look shocked at the same time.
“You have seriously got to shave and get a haircut,” she said as she advanced the film. “You’re starting to look like a homeless guy.”
“I think it makes me look rugged and handsome,” I said. “Sort of like Hugh Jackman.”
“You look more like the Wolf Man than Wolverine,” she replied.
“Come on,” I said. “We still have some traveling to do. But here’s a souvenir.” She took the keychain and brochure, then hugged me.
“Oh, they built this place as a memorial for the artist’s dad,” she said. A few steps later, she added, “We ought to do something like that for Dad.”
“We will,” I said. �
��If you’re wanting to do Stonehenge, there’s plenty of cars laying around, but it’ll take some time.”
“Dave, stop,” she said, her voice suddenly unsteady. “I’m serious.”
“So am I. If you want to do something, we’ll do it. No matter how big you want to go. He saved my life, too.”
“Thanks,” she said. We stowed our gear and got back on the bikes, then got back on the road. We hit the next road that went west, then got on 385 going north. Our route took us past the worst of the traffic, but from a town the size of Alliance, that wasn’t much. If anyone had tried to get out of town, it looked like they had clear roads to travel on.
The landscape got more interesting about an hour later when we hit the Pine Ridge area. Trees sprang up ahead though they weren’t as thick or tall as I’d expect to find in Missouri. We followed the road as it dipped and curved then slowly climbed again before it leveled out. About a mile in, we saw the first infected wandering down the road. I moved to the left side of the road and the infected moved to intercept me, its movements fast. Ghouls. When I was a few yards away, I swerved right, out of reach. Amy followed suit and came around on my right. More infected started to appear ahead of us, too many to simply avoid.
On impulse I broke left and sped through a gate, with Amy only a few feet behind. The dirt road led down a hill. I risked a look to my right and saw that the infected hit the barbed wire fence at full speed. It held up for a few heartbeats, then broke under their numbers. Then we were among the trees and I lost sight of them. The bikes were a lot faster than even the fastest human, and among trees, they wouldn’t be moving in a straight line. If we were lucky, they’d try to follow the sound of the bikes and run off a ridge or break their legs somehow. Luck wasn’t something I’d learned to count on, so I kept the bike’s throttle wide open. The road turned right up ahead, so I slowed down and leaned into the turn, hoping Amy made it, too. When I straightened out, she pulled up on my left, then sped ahead and broke left again. This time I was the one trying to keep up as she wove through the trees, following a dirt trail that I could barely see.
