by C A Bird
As the pickup truck flew down Main Street toward the highway, Mark saw Jimbo and Danny riding the motorcycle down the street. They each had an assault rifle hung over their back and guns in holsters strapped to their waists. Mark knocked on the back window of the truck. As Lori slid it open Mark yelled to Jeff, “Slow down alongside that motorcycle.” Pulling up alongside Jimbo, Mark gestured for him to follow them, and cupping his hands around his mouth yelled, “Follow us. We’ve got bad guys coming into town.”
Jeff was blasting the horn as they went, and the men in the back of the pickup truck were calling out for everyone they saw to follow them to the north highway barrier. Liam was broadcasting on the radio for every available person with a weapon to join them. Within a few minutes they pulled up to the intersection of Main Street and the highway, and piled out of the truck to take up positions on either side of the road. There were businesses and retail stores along the four-lane road. The townspeople had positioned a barrier of hay bales, two deep, two high, and four long, in one of the northbound, and one of the southbound lanes.
Mark and Lori only had their handguns, but all of the men at the barrier and most of those just arriving, had various makes and calibers of rifles. The call to arms had been answered by dozens of men and women, most running up the streets, but quite a few arriving in cars and trucks. By the time Mark spotted the speeding vehicle in the distance, he estimated there were at least one hundred and fifty people in the stores, behind dead vehicles and hiding behind rusting dumpsters, for at least one hundred yards up the Highway.
Jimbo and Danny had taken up positions beside Mark and Lori toward the front of the defenders. Mark felt almost unarmed with just his Sig .45.
The roar from the car’s engine could be heard as it came over a rise in the road and barreled down the highway toward the barrier. There was plenty of room to pass the bales of hay as the townspeople had never completely blocked the road. Until now, most travelers had arrived on horseback, wagons, or on foot. Mark reasoned that the people in the car were probably good guys, since they were being chased by a pack of motorcycles. His analysis proved to be correct when he heard the popping of gunfire coming from behind the car.
“Here they come!” yelled Jimbo. The car appeared to be about a half-mile away when it looked like it was starting to slow down.
“What the hell’s he doing?” Danny asked. “Why’s he stopping?”
“He’s fishtailing. I think they got his tire,” Mark replied.
The car continued to whip back and forth until large strips of rubber flew from a back tire. Sparks flew from the rear of the vehicle as the rim hit the pavement. Slowing further, the car pulled to the right side of the road and stopped. The doors flew open and a man ran around the front of the car to where a woman was trying to get something from the back seat. In a few seconds the man and woman, each carrying a small child were running toward them.
Mark heard Lori gasp as the motorcycles came over the hill and into view. “God, there’s so many of them.”
“Lori, keep your head down. We don’t need to fire until they get alongside of us.”
The two lids of the dumpster were open and Mark could see between them. The family slowed and the woman went to her knees, trying to hand the child she was carrying to the man. He set the other boy down and the two little guys started running toward the town, as the man grabbed the woman by the arm and tried to pull her after them. The gunfire continued, and Mark couldn’t imagine how they would make it to the barrier without being hit.
“Open fire!” Someone yelled from across the street. The townspeople returned fire, a hundred and fifty weapons firing at the gang.
Suddenly, Danny jumped up, stepped around the end of the dumpster and sprinted for the family.
27
Jon almost lost control of the car as the rear tire was hit and the vehicle began to fishtail. The back of the car bounced, and the rim hit the road, sparks flying as it screeched down the road. Jon jerked the steering wheel of the car to the right and slid to a stop at the edge of the right-hand lane. Jumping out of the car, he raced around the front of the Taurus to the rear door, throwing it open. “Come on! Come on!” As Jon unfastened their seatbelts, the two little boys, bawling loudly, quickly climbed out of the car. Jon grabbed Josh and shoved him into Mary’s arms. Sweeping up Jason, they began to run down the side of the road, the sounds of motorcycles in the distance behind them.
“Come on, Mary. Hurry!” he gestured to her, but Mary couldn’t go any faster. She was weak from months of living in a basement with very little sunlight or fresh air. The weight of little Josh in her arms was too much and she stumbled and fell to her knees. Pain shot through her legs and it was all she could do to keep from dropping the child to the ground.
She was sucking air. “Jon, I’m sorry I just can’t go on. Here take Josh. Go.”
Jon could see something in the distance across the right side of the road. It looked like some kind of a barrier and he saw movement behind it. He waved his free arm at the people and tried to pull Mary to her feet. Signing one-handed, he said, “Come on Mary. There’s somebody up ahead.”
She sobbed, “I can’t Jon. I just can’t go on. Please take the boys and go!”
The menacing growl of the motorcycles grew louder and John knew they only had a few minutes. He set Jason on the ground and screamed at the boys, “Run, run to the barrier!” Grabbing Mary by the arm, he jerked her to her feet. He screamed in her ear, wishing she could hear him, “You’re not gonna stay here and die! Not after everything we’ve done to survive. Come on Mary. Please run.”
He glanced up and saw someone running toward them. In the distance he heard a shout, “Danny, get back here. What the fuck are you doing?” Then he heard the sound of a motorcycle starting up behind a dumpster. The boys had slowed to a walk and it was all Jon could do to drag Mary along at a slow clip. He looked behind him and wished he hadn’t. Scores of motorcycles came over a small rise in the road, bearing down on them. In front of him, he saw a young man sprinting as hard as he could in their direction and, behind the young man, an old motorcycle swept around the dumpster, flying in their direction.
More gunfire erupted and Jon could hear rounds slapping the ground on either side and behind him. The motorcycle in front raced past the running man, as the rider fired his weapon toward the oncoming horde. Swinging around behind Jon and Mary, he headed back toward the barrier, sweeping up little Jason in his arms as he went by. Danny reached Josh, grabbed him up and yelled at Jon, “We’ve got the kids. Come on, hurry.” The gunfire continued behind them, and on both sides, from the storefronts, answering gunfire could be heard.
With renewed effort, both Jon and Mary started running after the two men carrying their precious children. The sounds of the motorcycles behind them suddenly diminished and Jon glanced back to see the line of choppers slowing down.
Then he heard an inhumane scream. He looked back to see one motorcycle, a huge Harley, coming down the highway toward them, the rider with a maniacal look on his face. His eyes were wide, the whites showing all around even from this distance, and his teeth were bared in a horrible grimace. The front wheel lifted off the road and the bike picked up tremendous speed, traveling for twenty yards on its rear wheel alone. In one hand, the man brandished a huge revolver. As he came screaming down the highway, the front tire settled back on the road and he began firing at the fleeing people. Just before they reached the barrier, Jon saw the man carrying Josh get hit in the back. The young man stumbled a few steps forward, and dropped Josh to the ground, pitching forward onto his face as the little boy flew out of his arms.
The entire line of bikers surged forward after their leader.
The motorcycle rider was still screaming, a high-pitched wail, like a supernatural phantom, and he was emptying the revolver toward John and Mary. A piece of asphalt kicked up and hit John in the back of the head. He thought he’d been hit. Someone stepped out from behind a dumpster, firing his weapon at th
e biker, and grabbed him and Mary, throwing them down just as the rider flew past.
Answering gunfire cut down the motorcycle rider a few seconds before he reached the barrier. Plowing into it at over one hundred miles per hour, hay bales flew everywhere and the chopper flipped ten feet into the air, tumbling down the road in a shower of sparks, the sound of screeching metal echoing off the buildings that lined the highway. The rider was catapulted over the handlebars, coming down directly on his head. There was a loud crack and the man tumbled down the roadway, leaving smeared splotches of blood, until the body came to a halt in a tangled heap, with arms and legs and neck bent in directions never intended by God.
Jimbo rode up on the Indian motorcycle and handed Jason to Jon, another bringing him Josh, who was bleeding from both knees and scraped up hands. He swung the bike around to face the choppers roaring down the highway. Bullets zinged around them.
A biker was hit in the chest, and his bike flipped over, skidding into the dumpster and knocking it backward into Mark and Lori, slamming both to the asphalt. Jimbo brought up his rifle and shot the rider point-blank as he tried to come to his feet. Mark scrambled up, and hearing a shout of pain across the street, he saw one of the townspeople spin around and topple to the ground
The motorcycles flew by, the riders firing at the defenders on both sides of the highway. Riders and townspeople alike were hit by flying bullets, as the bikers swung into the parking areas before the shops, firing into the stores. Smoke filled the streets from weapons fire, burning wrecks of choppers, and from tires, as the bikers spun 180 degrees and sped back toward the north.
In the chaos, two choppers collided and one flew into a storefront. Mark saw men and women dodging the flying, burning vehicle as they poured lead into the rider. A man ran out of the building with his arm on fire and was tackled by two others, who threw him to the ground and swatted at the flames with their bare hands.
Then the last of the choppers were flying back toward the north.
“Get a medic over here!” Someone was trying to staunch the flow of blood from the man who had collapsed across the street. A woman with a large backpack slid down beside him and, flinging open the pack, began to administer to the bleeding man.
Jimbo did a wheelie as he followed the bikers north, skidding to a stop at the body of the young man that had saved the children.
“Aaron!” he screamed. “Someone get the doctor.”
Scared to death, he pulled Danny into his lap, trying to put pressure on the wound.
***
Sporadic gunfire continued as the bikers passed the crippled car. Another hundred yards and they turned to face the town. The smoke was clearing and they could see the guns pointing in their direction.
The gunfire had ceased and Bing looked over at Cutter.
“Dude, I think we’re seriously outnumbered here. It would be suicide to take these guys on anymore, and Chase is either dead or they’ve got him. I say we get the hell out of here.” They heard another shot from the south and a lucky round struck one of the men to Bing’s left. Flying backward off his bike, his motorcycle toppled to the ground.
Two men were astride a single bike behind the fallen rider.
“Duncan, get that bike and let’s get out of here,” Bing ordered. The man on the back jumped off and grabbed the now rider-less motorcycle. Bikers were revving their engines waiting for some sort of direction. Bing swung around and screamed out at them to get back. The bikes at the rear had room to turn around and they sped off toward the north. Like an onion being peeled, the rest of the choppers turned around line by line, until at last, Bing and Cutter swung their cycles in a circle, revving their rumbling, Harley engines. Just before taking off to the north, Bing looked over his shoulder and fired three shots toward Jimbo as a parting gesture.
“Hey Bing,” Cutter yelled over the noise of the engines, “where we going now?”
“Albuquerque.”
They left the fallen riders where they lay.
***
“Somebody get the doctor, get Aaron!”
“Lori, get one of those cars to go get Aaron.” Mark grabbed Danny’s rifle from the ground and ran to where Danny had fallen.
“Come on, kid. Please, Danny, hang in there until Aaron gets here. You’re going to be all right.” Jimbo sat on the ground, holding Danny. There was a pool of blood forming under him as Mark raced to their side.
Danny was conscious and looked up at Jimbo. “Hey, man. You’re scaring me. Am I hit that bad? Did they make it? The kids?”
“Yeah, Danny. The whole family is okay, thanks to you, and it looks like the bikers decided we were too much for them.”
A crowd was gathering around, and Mark enlisted aid in getting Danny turned over. He was bleeding from both an entrance and an exit wound, just above the scapula on his right side. They managed to get Danny’s shirt off and Mark used it to apply pressure to the wound on his back.
“Here, buddy, use this.” Someone behind Mark tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a mesh with a substance embedded in it.
“What is it? What do I do with it?”
“Slap it on the wound. It will stop the bleeding. Here, I’ve got another one for the front.”
He raced off to help with the other casualties.
When Lori arrived with Aaron in the back of a pickup truck they found Jimbo holding Danny in his lap, with one hand holding the clotting mesh in place on his back, and Mark holding the other. With the help of a couple of other men, they hoisted Danny into the back of the pickup truck where Aaron, taking care not to dislodge the mesh, examined him. Danny had passed out, either from pain or shock.
“Let’s get him back to camp. I think he’s going to make it, thanks to whoever had the quick clot. It’s a great thing because most battlefield deaths occur due to bleeding.”
Mark smiled at Lori, careful not to touch her with his bloody hands. “I guess this means we can’t think of Danny as a spoiled, little brat anymore.”
Lori hurried over to the family sitting behind the dumpster. The boys were crying and the young parents looked shell-shocked.
“Are you guys all right?”
“Yes, I think so. I’m Jon and my wife is Mary.”
Jon climbed to his feet, unable to believe it was over. Not only had they escaped with their lives from Ben’s buddies, and the bikers, but there was a community of regular people here.
Mary said something, her voice slurred. The skinny young man turned to her and answered in American Sign Language. Lori realized the woman was deaf.
“Can we get one of the medics to take a look at the boys?
“Of course. As soon as they attend to the more seriously injured.”
“Lori, we’re ready to go.” Mark called.
“Be right there.” She turned back to Jon. “We’re heading back to our camp and one of the doctors is a member of our group. Do you want to come with us?”
Jon signed to the woman, then turned back and nodded his head. “Yes, please.”
Lori lifted one of the boys from Mary’s arms, as Jon extended a hand to help her up. They climbed into the back of the pickup with Danny, covered by a blanket, and Aaron and Mark. Lori sat up front with Jason.
Ten minutes later they arrived back at the wagons and Aaron had his hands full caring for his patients and putting up with Jimbo’s hovering.
28
Each day ran into another as they slogged their way through the backwoods of Kentucky. Three or four miles into another day’s hike, Roger and Ashe came out onto a dirt road. It was barely recognizable as such, with knee-high grass growing up through the dirt, and puddles of muddy water hiding ruts and potholes. The rain had ceased temporarily, but the clouds were low, and mist swirled around them as they walked. The road disappeared into the fog a hundred yards down the road.
“What do you think?” Ashe asked.
“I think it might lead somewhere other than this interminable forest. Let’s follow it.”
�
��Which way?”
Roger shrugged his shoulders. “Right.”
The road trended downhill, for which they were grateful. A few more miles and it widened and seemed in better repair. The fog had lifted but the day was still dreary. They stopped and Ashe removed his pack. Stuffing their ponchos into a side pocket, they sat on the wet ground, eating some jerky and washing it down with water.
“What’s that over there?” Ashe was pointing across the meadow. He shouldered his pack and moved closer to the object. It turned out to be an ancient, rusting, car frame. “Looks like it was burned,” Ashe commented.
“Hey, there’s another one.” Roger walked over to it. “It’s a washing machine. I think this is a junk yard. We’d better be careful. We may be coming to civilization.”
They jogged over to the tree line and snuck through the edge of the forest trying to stay hidden. The trees in the forest were too far apart and they were having trouble finding cover.
Coming out onto an intersecting road, they heard, “You boys get your hands in the air.”
Roger’s heart jumped into his throat and he threw his hands into the air. “Don’t shoot! We don’t have any guns.”
“You have some mean-looking, pig-stickers strapped to your legs. You just unbuckle those belts and drop ‘em on the ground.”
They did as they were told and, as he dropped the belt, Roger looked at the men. There were four, large, white guys and a black man, all armed with rifles pointed directly at them.
“Smitty, get their belts,” the leader said.
“Sure, Billy.” The small, bald, black man handed his rifle to a hulking, young fellow with jet black hair and beard, and leaning in, grabbed the belts. He bounced back out, as if thinking Roger was going to grab and devour him.
Ashe said, “Really, we don’t mean… ”
