by Ryan Husk
“I’ve told you that you can get out if you want, and I would have a clean conscience because I got you this far, but if you get out now—” He broke off, looking intently at his rearview mirror.
“What is it?” Gordon watched him.
Edward didn’t answer. He was occupied at the moment. Gordon heard a terrible roaring noise behind them. He turned to look, expecting the worst. But here came a small fleet of motorcycles, Harleys and hogs. Long beards waved in the wind, black shades, and mean, earnest looks were smeared all over their faces. “Good God,” he muttered. “Looks like the Hell’s Angels convention, or a rally at Sturgis.”
The motorcycles thundered right up on their asses. The rider leading the pack, a big bear of a man with a red beard like a lion’s mane about his neck, remained categorically expressionless as he swerved into the other lane and drove up beside them. He made a gesture with his left hand for Edward to roll down his window. But then he seemed to realize the window was already smashed in.
Edward touched his gun, and gave Gordon a meaningful look, then slowed down to talk to the biker.
“Where you all headin’?” the biker shouted. Now that Gordon could see his right profile, he noticed the sleeves of his jacket were torn off, and his big, meaty arms were completely covered in tattoos, the most impressive of which was a naked woman-serpent twisting around and around his right forearm. His helmet was a bowl-shaped black thing with a red dragon opening its mouth and spitting flames, and it looked almost too tiny for his head.
“Alabama,” Edward called out. “You?”
“Yep, ’Bama,” the biker confirmed. He could just barely be heard over the roar of the one hundred and twenty-three horses he was sitting on.
“You got any word on what’s going on there?”
“Nawp, but I know what’s going on behind us.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” the biker said. “Mobs. Hundreds o’ people all riled up in mobs. The power went out in a bunch o’ counties right after the bombs hit. It’s like Hurricane Katrina all over. Bunch o’ fuckers moving in on the Walmarts with shotguns. I drove by there, saw the police trying to do something about it. It was almost funny, ya know?”
“What else?”
“Hospitals. Two of ’em crawling with people trying to get in to see their families, but the power’s going out and people are probably dyin’. I’m just guessing on that, but it seems logical.” Gordon thought this red-bearded giant surprisingly coherent. Something creeped him out about the biker. A second later, he knew what it was. He’s like Edward. They’re cut from the same cloth. They’ve been expecting this, maybe even hoping for it.
“Hospitals,” Edward sighed.
“What about them?” Gordon said.
“Shopping centers and hospitals. Food and medical supplies. For the people who didn’t give this much thought beforehand, but are getting proactive now. While the rest of the world is in shock, they’re starting to loot.” He shook his head, then called out the window. “What’s your name?”
“Wade,” said the biker.
“I’m Edward. You know anything about that?” He pointed to the Face.
“Nawp, but I met up with a guy a few miles back, said his mother shot herself, thinkin’ it was the Devil. End Times an’ all. Shit’s crazy, brother.”
“Yeah,” Edward shouted back. “You know anything about what’s up ahead, Wade? Anything at all?”
“Three o’ my people came from that way. We met up twenty minutes ago. They said they saw roadblocks up an’ down I-20.” At this, Edward gritted his teeth and mouthed, Shit. “Police vehicles. They’re lettin’ people through, but damn slowly. Checkin’ vehicles.”
“Geiger counters?”
“You got it.”
Gordon leaned over. “Geiger counters?”
“Looking for radiation, maybe other vehicles with bombs. A sorting process, probably initiated by Homeland Security. It’s all part of Operation SCATANA. All these things start at the local level—fire departments will be the first agencies on the ground, they’ll set up the IC.”
“IC…speak in English, please,” Gordon said, growing impatient.
“Incident Command. The Incident Commander is the eyes on the ground, establishes perimeters, communicates with his bosses, and the information travels up the chain of command, all the way to Homeland Security. Same with the police. Local cops, sheriffs and highway patrol will help form the net, keep the situation contained.”
“By keeping us in? We’ll die! From…from…”
“From fallout,” said Janet. “We’ll die from the radiation.”
Edward waved that aside. “That’s not their concern. They’ll all get their HAZMAT suits and sort us at the borders. If not at the state line then at each county line. Remember what I said about feeding millions of people in states that can’t handle them? Well, they’re trying to prevent that from happening. It’s all about containment now.”
Gordon’s mind spun at the implications. They couldn’t stay here. If they stayed here, they died. Yet the government couldn’t let them all just flee willy-nilly. It made sense…But they’re killing us. The longer they contain us, they’re killing us. “What can we do?”
“Remember the other thing I said, about it being every man for himself?” Edward shrugged, and called out to Wade the biker. “You boys know these roads pretty well?”
“Pretty damn well, yeah.”
“What’s say we pull over up ahead, come up with a game plan?”
Wade gave him a thumbs up, and pointed just ahead. There was a farmhouse on the side of Jones Mill Road, about half a mile up. The biker pulled ahead, followed by the rest of his thundering gang. Gordon watched them go, and asked, “What are you doing?” Edward gave him a look. “I thought you said we couldn’t just trust anybody that—”
“Those people back at that wreck were without vehicles, and basically wanted to come with us. We didn’t have enough space, and eventually there could’ve been a fight over which way to escape—east or west, maybe north—and if that happened, there would’ve been a fight over who gets the jeep. These biker boys are already mobile, and don’t strike me as desperate.” He shrugged. “Besides, they’re probably more mobile than we are. With those bikes, they can scout ahead better than we can. They can take roads, maybe even forest paths, that this jeep can’t fit through.” Edward looked at him. “Rule to remember: use, but don’t let yourself be used.”
You learn something new every day. That was his mother’s voice. Gordon had learned she was right about that, he just didn’t like the lesson. Something else occurred to him. “This Wade guy, he said power was out.”
“Yeah,” said Edward, pulling over into the wide-open yard of the farmhouse.
“Power out this far, though?”
“Evacuations.”
“Surely the government won’t evacuate people providing important services like power and water and—”
“Not their choice. If plant workers want to evacuate to be with their families, who can stop them? And who can blame them, now that at least two bombs have gone off?”
Gordon gave that some thought. “But aren’t power plants able to, like, keep pumping out power for years?”
“You’re thinking of the really big ones, like the Hoover Dam.” The jeep jumped and dipped as they moved slowly into the yard. The other hogs were grumbling to a halt at various places within the yard. “Without people moderating the power levels, the computers put all the plants into a ‘safe mode’ and then it’s just like the power’s gone out. More than half this state will be dark at nightfall, even if they weren’t touched by the EMP.”
Edward pulled to halt, put the jeep in park, switched it off.
“There’s more to this survival game than just surviving the initial blast and gathering food, Gord-O. The blast is just the beginning. The fallout is deadly, sure, but it’s the people that get you killed. Nothing’s dangerous as long as people aren’t in your way. A sinking c
ruise ship wouldn’t suffer any fatalities at all if the fucking captain would do his job and order passengers to the life boats when he ought to, and send out the distress call when he fucking should have.” He opened the door, stepped out. “It’s people not doing their jobs, failing to do what makes the most sense, that’s what gets everyone killed.” Edward shut the door, and walked over to meet Wade the biker.
Gordon watched him go, shaking his head. From the back seat, Janet asked, “Are we gonna make it?”
He sighed. “I don’t know, sweet girl. And that’s the truth. Sorry to put it so bluntly, but…” For a moment, Molly’s face passed in front of his vision. He closed his eyes, fought back the tears. Took a deep breath, counted to five on the inhale, held it, and let it out to a count of five. A small hand touched his shoulder. Gordon reached back and patted it.
In the distance, they heard thunder. Gordon looked up. One of the Face’s eyes looked down at him. He shivered.
V.
Wade pushed down the kickstand, pulled off his tiny helmet, and swung a huge leg over the back of his bike. He tossed the helmet onto his handlebars and reflexively touched the revolver at his side. He grunted as he hiked up his pants around his widening waistline, then took a look south, towards the mushroom cloud still blooming. For the first time in an hour, he pulled off his sunglasses—he’d kept them on in case of another flash. Wade wasn’t so certain it would work, but it couldn’t hurt.
Then he looked up. “Fuck you,” he told the Face in the sky. It grinned malevolently back at him.
The black Wrangler pulled up directly behind him. Wade rooted around in his soul and pulled out a smile. He wasn’t the kind of man to take the end of the world lightly, but he was a realist and also knew that the world couldn’t go on without politeness and grace. “Pardner,” he said, thrusting out his meaty palm.
The man approaching him was younger than him by about twenty years, dark-skinned and with intense, squinty eyes. Edward was dressed with a tucked-in button-up shirt, but looked in shape, a little rugged. He had erect posture, walked with a slight lean forward like he meant business. City slicker, but not by choice. Survivalist, minimalist by nature. Former military or police. Looks like the kind o’ guy that would straighten picture frames on the walls of a strange hotel room. As Wade shook his hand, he gave it a second thought. Or a serial killer. He smiled wide. “What’s up, Eduardo?”
A perfunctory smile and a curt nod, barely acknowledging the joke, shaking hands and moving right along. Firm handshake, this one. “So tell me your story, Wade, but be quick. We gotta move.” Right to the point. The quick, acknowledging nod. Something about him smells like former military.
“Well, it’s actually a pretty short tale.” Wade launched right into, glancing over Edward’s shoulder and looking at the other two in his jeep, seeing the black fellow and the little white girl stepping out, looking shaken. A big German Shepherd remained inside the jeep, looking intently at Wade. The black guy looked like he had a swollen face, busted nose.
As he spoke, Wade’s brain was working out the different possibilities of this trio. “At first flash, I was workin’ on my Deuce coupé. My mother’s screaming from the kitchen. I get her and my sister in the truck and throw my bug-out bag in the bed, had then head out with our hand-crank while I went to check on my other sister, but she was already gone.”
“Couldn’t call her?” Edward asked. “Phones not working where you guys were, either?”
“Right, so I can’t contact my sister, but Jeb an’ Marshall over there,” he said, pointing to his two oldest riding buddies, who were just dismounting their hogs, “they’ve always kept bug-out bags and hand-cranks. Came lookin’ for me. They live up the road from me, and Jeb’s dad’s got a bomb shelter up in the North Georgia Mountains.”
Edward nodded approvingly. “You’re all go-ready?”
“Darn straight,” he said, watching the black fellow come strolling up. “Holy Toledo! You okay, brother man?”
“I’m fine. I’m Gordon. Gordon Devereux.” This man was just starting to get some real age on him. Crow’s feet around the eyes, and deep lines around his mouth that bracketed his lips.
“Wade Winchester,” he said, slapping Gordon’s hand and squeezing. Wade’s eyes darted to Edward, whose eyes were busy scanning the other bikers and their rides. Taking inventory. Assessing the situation, possible new assets, and the possible problems we all bring. Yeah, fucker’s go-ready, all right.
Wade wasn’t sure how he felt about this. He knew there were two kinds of preppers: the calm, level-headed sort, and the way-too-intense type. The former hoped the End Times never came, the latter prayed for it. “Pleasure to meet you all. And you, lil’ missy,” he said, offering his friendliest smile. “Darn shame to meet like this, though. What’s your name?”
“Janet,” said the girl. Her eyes were like a doe’s. Trapped in headlights. Stuck with these two. Don’t resemble Edward, and she sure as shit ain’t Gordon’s biological daughter. Wade examined her ragged state, the dried blood running down her left leg that had been badly wiped away, the bandages around her knee.
“Janet, I’m Wade. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about now. Y’hear?” This won him the ghost of a smile. That’s something. He looked up at the two men, and leaned forward in earnest interrogation. “Which direction you boys hail from?”
“South. Kennesaw for me, Cartersville for these two.” Edward said. He moved a little nervously and fast, but with a restraint that suggested he was a cautious, pensive man.
“What, ya just picked up some strays?”
“Something like that,” Edward said, turning and taking a look at that mushroom cloud. Then he looked up at the Face.
The man takes stock, Wade thought. Not panicking. The Face hasn’t got him freaked out. Yet.
Behind Wade, Jeb and Marshall came strolling up, Marshall’s gal Margery in tow, wiping tears away from her eyes. Poor thing. The rest of the gang were gathering at the far end of the yard and looking up at the red-glowing eyes peeking from the clouds, gawking and shouting, some of them taking pictures as the black web extended farther from that face, blocking out more of the sun. Black clouds stained with yellow spots curled around the Face.
They all just took more pictures. Wade knew he’d have to ditch them pretty soon. Gerald and Albie were loners for life, and wouldn’t hang around for long, not while the others were looking for family. Patty’s father had gotten through to him just before the phones stopped working and he was going to meet up with him in Marietta. Hoyt, Benny, Greg, and all their women were about to turn back, heading for their storm shelters. They planned to wait this thing out.
“Jeb, Marshall, this is Edward, Gordon, and Janet,” he said.
“Hey boys,” said Marshall, nodding. Wade’s tall, massive, beer-bellied bud tipped his imaginary hat at Janet. “My lady.” He pointed to his woman. “This is Margery.” Margery was twenty-six years old, nearly half Marshall’s age; a wild child with daddy issues, who liked to collect tattoos, piercings, and guns. She also had severe migraines, brought on by a tumor, grade four. The tumor was rocking her worse every day. And now this, he thought. Through a mouthful of studs and with tears streaming down her face, Margery managed a smile and said, “Howdy, boys. Helluva day, eh?”
“Shitty business, meetin’ like this,” was how Jeb put it, and summarily hawked some spittle and spat it into the grass, wiped the dangling remnant off his bearded chin and glanced at the mushroom cloud, shaking his head. “Goddam shitty fuckin’ business, all around. Fuck me, how did this happen?” he said, turning his lazy eye on Wade.
“Mind yer tongue, Jeb,” Wade said, sighing. “World’s taken a turn, but a young lady is present.” He turned back to Edward, saw his eyes moving, looking up and down the road, sweeping. He’s calculating. Getting a feel for the wind, the lack of traffic on this road, and the rest of us fatass bikers. “What did you folks see in Kennesaw an’ Cartersville?”
“Yeah,” Jeb said, bri
nging his attention back to them. “Is shit hittin’ fans down thataway?”
“Jeb. Language.” Wade never took his eyes off Edward, and Edward never looked at Wade as he answered.
“I was heading into work. The flash happened and I hit the road. I ran into these two in Cartersville on the way up, cutting across the onramp.” He put his hands on his hips, looked up at the sky. Wade followed his gaze. A group of clouds in concentric rings were expanding out from the mushroom cloud, wreathing parts of the Face. Edward obviously didn’t like it. He thinking about fallout? “I nearly ran over these two,” he said, indicating Gordon and Janet without looking at them. “The traffic on I-75 is impossible to get through. Wrecks are piling up, everybody’s trying to get out at once.”
“You seen gubment vehicles?” asked Jeb, rubbing at his lazy eye.
“Yeah, you?”
“Sho as fuck did.”
“Jeb,” he said, and eyed his oldest, dumbest biking partner. “Yeah, we saw government vehicles.”
“FEMA?”
“Naw,” Margery suddenly put in. “Naw, weren’t FEMA. A line of black SUVs, more’n a dozen of ’em. They were all headed south, and a few stopped to help the local police with roadblocks. Harland and Gerald over there saw ’em, too. They’d just come from Scottsville, movin’ across I-20. We were all supposed to meet up, we were gonna go out ridin’ today.”
“Scratch that fuckin’ plan,” Jeb put in, laughing mirthlessly. He pointed at the mushroom cloud, then at the Face, in case no one had noticed.
Wade let the language go. “Anyways, Harland an’ the boys all said they saw the same thing on I-20. Roadblocks. Checkpoints set up, just like when the cops sometimes check for insurance an’ licenses.”
Jeb laughed. Again, mirthlessly. “But they ain’t checkin’ fer that shit. Straight up roadblocks. By the time we rolled up, an APC was already there.”
“An APC?” Edward said, jerking his head back towards Jeb.
He ain’t asking what APC stands for, Wade thought. He knows what it stands for, and he don’t like it. “Yeah, we saw two drive past us two miles back,” he said.
